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'^THE   DOOR 
:"HE  GATR 

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RREST     RE  ID 

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■'i^^M^^^^B^M 

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GIFT   OF 

MICHAEL  REESE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/atdoorofgateOOreidrich 


AT   THE    DOOR 
OF    THE   GATE 


BY 

FORREST    REID 


"  Whither  shall  I  go  from  Thy  spirit?  or  whither  shall  I  flee  from 
Thy  presence?  If  I  ascend  up  into  heaven,  Thou  art  there:  if  I 
make  my  bed  in  hell,  behold.  Thou  art  there.  If  I  take  the  wings  of 
the  morning,  and  dwell  in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea ;  even  there 
shall  Thy  hand  lead  me,  and  Thy  right  hand  shall  hold  me." 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
1916 

[All  rights  reserved] 


TO 

WALTER   DE   LA  MARE 


336832 


CONTENTS 


PART  FIRST 

PAGE 

The  Mother,  I-VIII  .  -  -  .  .       i 


PART  SECOND 


PART  FOURTH 
Grace,  I-VIII 


.      6i 


PART  THIRD 
Rose,  I-VIII  ----..  139 


-    213 


PART  FIFTH 
The  Flight,  I-IV     -  -  -  -  -  -    263 

PART  SIXTH 
The  Vision,  1-VlI    -  -  -  -  -  -    297 


PART    FIRST 
THE   MOTHER 


I 

Mrs.  Wilberforce  strongly  objected  to  Myrtle  Row. 
The  eight  cheap  houses  run  up  just  at  the  end  of 
Blenheim  Gardens  by  a  greedy  landlord  of  plebeian  and 
commercial  instincts  were  a  perpetual  eyesore  to  her.  In 
Blenheim  Gardens  resided  eminent  physicians,  successful 
lawyers,  distinguished  professors,  well-to-do  business 
men — the  ^lite,  in  short,  of  the  middle  class — and  here 
for  twenty  years  the  Wilberforces  themselves  had  lived, 
occupying  the  house  with  the  creeper,  next  door  to 
Professor  Lanyon's;  but  in  Myrtle  Row  there  dwelt  a 
person  who  inspected  gas-meters,  a  clerk,  a  postman,  a 
tram-conductor ;  while  number  eight,  a  double-house  (also 
next  door  to  Professor  Lanyon's),  stood  revealed  as  a  very 
unpretending  post-office  and  lending  library.  Both 
Mrs.  Wilberforce  (whose  grandfather  had  been  a 
General)  and  Professor  Lanyon  had  given  notice  when, 
in  an  incredibly  short  time.  Myrtle  Row  had  ceased  to  be 
the  mere  scheme  of  a  vulgar  brain  and  had  become  a 
conspicuous  reality,  and,  though  in  due  course  their 
notices  were  withdrawn,  it  was  very  widely  felt  that  the 
value  of  house  property  in  the  vicinity  must  have 
depreciated,  and  the  occupants  of  Blenheim  Gardens  had 
unanimously  and  successfully  demanded  a  reduction  in 
their  rents. 

As  for  Mrs.  Wilberforce,  in  spite  of  this  saving  of  five 


THE  MOTHER  3 

pounds  a  year,  every  time  she  passed  Myrtle  Row — and 
she  passed  it  usually  half  a  dozen  times  a  day — a  keen 
sense  of  displeasure  was  awakened  in  her  breast.  Nor 
was  this  displeasure,  on  the  whole,  unjustifiable,  for  the 
eight  houses  were  ugly,  jerry-built  affairs,  offering  to  the 
eye  no  consolatory  feature,  and  even  if  Mrs.  Wilberforce's 
main  objections  to  them  were  based  on  grounds  social 
rather  than  aesthetic,  still  their  unsightliness  contributed 
to  her  annoyance.  What  contributed  even  more  was  the 
habit  the  women  had  of  standing  before  their  doors  and 
conversing  with  one  another  in  loud  tones,  when  they 
were  not  screaming  at  the  children  who  played  noisy 
games  on  the  footpath.  The  favourite  rallying  spot  of 
these  innocents  seemed  to  be  directly  in  front  of  Mrs. 
Wilberforce's  own  garden  gate.  They  were  for  ever 
there,  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  peeping  over  the  hedge, 
staring  at  her  visitors,  losing  balls  among  her  flower- 
beds, appealing  with  unconquerable  pertinacity  to  Mr. 
Wilberforce  for  "  cigarette  pictures,"  which,  "  on 
principle,"  were  never  bestowed. 

Each  house  of  Myrtle  Row  had  its  own  little  garden, 
consisting  largely  of  black  iron  railings  and  dirt,  though 
the  postman's  plot,  invigorated  by  a  load  of  manure,  had 
produced  an  eruption  of  marigolds  and  "  piano  roses," 
as  well  as  an  active  insect  colony.  The  children  of  the 
postman,  two  pert  little  girls,  guarded  this  unsavoury 
oasis  jealously.  "  Lizzie  Smith,  don't  you  be  coming 
into  our  garden,  or  I'll  tell  my  mother  on  you,  y'impudent 
thing,  ye  !"  was  what  Mrs.  Wilberforce  overheard  as  she 
passed.  The  little  boys  were  more  generous  in  their 
hospitality.  They  kept  "  sprickleys  "  in  tubs,  and  when 
there  was  nothing  more  exciting  on  hand  would  invite 
one  another  in  to  fish  for  these  accommodating  creatures, 


4  AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

who,  by  the  aid  of  baited  pins  attached  to  pieces  of 
string,  could  be  recaptured  any  number  of  times. 

Number  8  Myrtle  Row,  the  end  house,  had  a 
distinctive  appearance,  not  only  because  of  its  larger  size, 
but  from  the  fact  that  a  public  letter-box  had  been  fitted 
into  its  front  wall;  while  above  the  door  there  hung  a 
board  upon  which  the  words  "  Seawright's  Lending 
Library "  were  painted  in  white  letters  on  a  black 
ground.  On  inquiry  within  you  might  obtain  additional 
information  as  to  the  terms  upon  which  books  were  to  be 
borrowed.  These  terms  were  twopence  per  volume,  with 
a  fine  of  one  penny  should  the  volume  be  retained  for 
more  than  a  week.  If  you  were  Mrs.  Wilberforce,  how- 
ever, you  knew  that  Mrs.  Seawright  never  exacted  the 
fine,  and  then  you  kept  the  books  as  long  as  it  suited 
you,  usually  for  a  month  or  two.  It  must  be  admitted, 
nevertheless,  that  the  lady  in  question  had  from  the  first 
extended  her  unqualified  patronage  to  Seawright's.  Mrs. 
Seawright  she  had  frequently  described  as  an  admirable 
woman  of  her  class — she  was  very  strong  on  classes — 
polite,  respectful,  obliging.  The  Seawright  children  had 
been  extremely  well  brought  up.  Their  clothes  were 
kept  neatly  mended  and  brushed ;  they  went  regularly 
to  church;  and  the  boys,  moreover,  were  remarkably 
handsome,  though  the  younger  boy  was  neither  so 
pleasant-looking  nor  so  well-mannered  as  his  brother. 
The  girl — really  only  an  adopted  child — was  distinctly 
plain.  Uninteresting,  Mrs.  Wilberforce  had  decided, 
after  devoting  a  remarkable  amount  of  ingenious  research 
in  regard  to  her  origin  and  prospects.  Unfortunately, 
in  this  connection,  the  question  direct  had  not  been  met 
with  an  equally  open-hearted  reply,  and  she  had  been 
obliged  to  return  to  the  subject  by  somewhat  devious 


THE  MOTHER  5 

routes  and  a  great  deal  oftener  than  should  have  been 
necessary,  thus  laying  the  foundation  of  a  certain 
intimacy  with  Mrs.  Seawright,  which  had  gradually 
ripened  into  what,  had  it  not  been  for  the  General,  might 
almost  have  been  termed  a  friendship.  To-day,  for 
instance,  it  was  in  the  friendliest  manner  possible  that 
she  hazarded  the  opinion  that  the  girl  might  make  a 
better  use  of  her  time  than  to  be  for  ever  playing  the 
piano.  As  she  spoke,  the  sound  of  Grace  Mallow's  scales, 
revealing  on  the  part  of  the  pianist  a  remarkable  alacrity 
of  the  thumb,  descended  from  an  upper  room,  to  the 
floor  of  which  Mrs.  Wilberforce  raised  her  eyes  prior  to 
transferring  them  to  Mrs.  Seawright's  rather  broad  back. 
In  answer  Mrs.  Seawright  produced  the  slightly  dis- 
concerting remark  that  if  the  girl  were  going  to  become 
a  professional  musician  she  supposed  that  the  more  she 
practised  the  better.  This  was  the  first  time  Mrs. 
Wilberforce  had  heard  of  the  "  professional  musician  " 
plan,  and  she  felt  an  urgent  and  unaccountable  desire 
to  squash  it  on  the  spot.  Since  it  was  impossible  to  do 
so,  she  inquired,  with  some  severity,  the  name  of  Grace's 
teacher.  There  followed  a  second  shock.  The  name 
Mrs.  Seawright  so  tranquilly  mentioned  happened  to 
be  that  of  the  most  prominent  musician  in  Belfast,  a  quite 
unreasonable  person,  whose  terms  Mr.  Wilberforce  had 
emphatically  refused  to  pay  when  it  had  been  a  question 
of  his  own  daughters  receiving  instruction.  And  it 
appeared  that  he  was  teaching  Grace  Mallow  for 
nothing.  Mrs.  Wilberforce  that  afternoon  was  unusually 
bitter  as  she  discussed  with  the  Rev.  Charles  Escott  the 
problem  of  the  education  of  the  working  classes,  and  not 
at  all  inclined  to  fall  in  v/ith  his  paradoxical  view  that 
children  of  the  highest  promise  are  frequently  of  humble 


6  AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

origin.  She  put  a  settler  on  that  by  quoting  to  him  his 
"  Duty  towards  his  Neighbour  " — the  bits  about  keeping 
to  one's  station  in  Hfe,  etc. — and  she  was  rather  colder 
than  she  intended  to  be  when  she  explained  to  Mrs. 
Seawright  why  the  covers  of  "  Concerning  Isabel 
Carnaby,"  which  she  was  returning  to  the  library, 
presented  so  peculiar  an  appearance.  The  plain  fact 
was  that  "  Isabel  "  had  been  dropped  in  the  mud,  and  an 
attempt  to  improve  matters  by  the  application  of  warm 
water  had  not  met  with  success.  Mrs.  Seawright,  how- 
ever, scarcely  glanced  at  the  blistered  cloth  or  muddy 
title-page.  She  said  it  was  of  no  consequence,  and, 
seeing  that  Mrs.  Wilberforce  still  lingered  in  the 
shop,  expressed  a  hope  that  Martin  was  giving  satis- 
faction. 

"  Martin  ?"  Mrs.  Wilberforce  echoed.  Her  tone  gave 
the  repetition  an  effect  of  sharpness.  Thin,  angular, 
with  iron-grey  hair  and  delicate,  rather  distinguished 
features,  she  held  herself  as  stiffly  erect  as  the  General 
himself  could  ever  have  done.  Her  skirts  were  cut  as  if  for 
purposes  of  vigorous  pedestrianism,  but  her  shoes  were 
very  high-heeled,  and  she  leaned  upon  a  gold-headed, 
tapping,  walking-stick. 

"  My  eldest  boy,  ma'am,"  Mrs.  Seawright  dutifully 
reminded  her.  "  He's  in  the  same  office  as  Mr. 
Wilberforce  is.  Mr.  Wilberforce  was  so  kind  as  to  say 
a  good  word  for  him  when  he  applied  to  be  taken  on.  .  .  . 
He's  been  working  there  these  six  months." 

"  Oh  !  I  think  I  remember.  .  .  .  Mr.  Wilberforce  said 
that  it  would  be  better  if  you  put  him  to  learn  a  trade, 
didn't  he  ?" 

Mrs.  Seawright  sighed.  "  It's  not  always  easy  picking 
and   choosing.     His   father   wasn't    a    tradesman,    and 


THE  MOTHER  7 

unless  you've  influence  or  can  pay  a  premium  they  won't 
take  a  boy  nowadays." 

All  through  this  conversation  the  presumptive  notes  of 
Grace's  piano  continued  to  sound,  and  it  was  really  they 
that  for  just  a  moment  perhaps  made  it  seem  fitting  that 
Martin's  prospects  should  not  be  any  brighter  than 
they  were.  Mrs.  Wilberforce's  severity,  however,  had 
distinctly  relaxed  when  she  asked  :  "  And  what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  the  other  boy  ?  I  suppose  he'll  be 
leaving  school  soon." 

"  With  Richard  ?  Indeed  I  don't  know,  ma'am.  I'm 
afraid  he'll  just  have  to  take  what  comes.  He's  good  at 
his  books,  and  Mr.  Hayes,  his  teacher — he  says  that,  with 
him  being  so  quiet,  I  should  make  a  parson  of  him.  But 
I  dare  say  he  was  joking — and  of  course  it's  only 
foolishness  any  way,"  she  added  regretfully.  "  Who's  to 
pay  for  his  college  ?  And,  even  if  it  could  be  done  by 
pinching  here  and  there,  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  Martin." 

"  No,  no ;  of  course  not,"  Mrs.  Wilberforce  agreed 
hastily.  This  friendly  inquiry  into  her  protegees' 
affairs  had  elicited,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Seawright's  unassum- 
ing manner,  revelations  of  misplaced  ambition  such  as 
she  had  never  dreamed  of,  and  she  decided  not  to  push 
it  any  farther.  She  left  the  post-office  feeling  vaguely 
depressed  and  irritated,  conscious  of  the  General's 
mouldering  bones,  and  of  how  little  they  were  able  to 
effect  in  an  age  given  over  to  vulgarity  and  democracy. 


II 

After  a  minute  or  two  Mrs.  Seawright  followed  her  to 
the  door,  and  stood  in  the  bright  September  sunlight 
looking  up  and  down  the  empty  street.  She  was  a 
woman  of  medium  height,  strong  and  ruddy.  There 
were  threads  of  grey  in  her  black  hair,  though  she  was 
not  yet  forty,  and  there  were  lines  in  her  face,  for  life 
had  not  always  been  easy — far  from  it.  But  her  com- 
plexion was  clear,  her  eyes  were  clear  too,  and  a  little 
stern.  Her  mouth  was  firm,  with  its  thin  lips  slightly 
compressed  and  drooping  perceptibly  at  the  corners ;  her 
hands  were  large,  rough,  capable.  She  was  very  plainly 
dressed,  always  in  black,  with  a  big  spotlessly  clean 
linen  apron. 

An  odour  of  cooking  told  her  that  Bessie,  the  girl  who 
helped  her,  had  again  left  the  kitchen  door  open;  or 
perhaps  Grace  had  opened  it,  for  Mrs.  Seawright  could 
no  longer  hear  the  piano.  She  was  tired  of  telling  them 
about  that  door.  As  she  stood  there,  tasting  the  fresh 
air,  she  had  all  the  appearance  of  a  countrywoman, 
though  it  was  more  than  twenty  years  since  she  had  left 
Cresslough,  where  her  father  still  farmed  his  own  land, 
and  nearly  every  trace  of  rusticity  had  vanished  from 
her  speech. 

Grace  was  the  first  of  the  children  to  join  her — Grace 
Mallow,  plain  and  thin,  small  for  her  age,  pale  and  flat- 
chested,  with  large  serious  intelligent  eyes  of  a  shade 
between  green  and  grey,  and  a  good  deal  of  silky  brown 

8 


THE  MOTHER  9 

hair.  But  in  spite  of  her  meagre  appearance  the 
girl  did  not  look  unhealthy,  nor  even  delicate. 
Unfortunately,  she  had  a  disfigurement,  a  birth- 
mark, like  a  deep  wine  stain,  extending  from  the 
roots  of  her  hair  down  over  her  left  temple.  Her 
hair  was  obviously  arranged  with  a  view  to  conceal- 
ing this,  but  it  could  not  be  completely  hidden.  In  her 
early  childhood  she  had  cared  little  about  it,  had  rarely 
remembered  its  existence,  even  though  reminded  of  it 
from  time  to  time  by  school  companions  in  the  stress  of 
argument.  Now,  at  fifteen,  she  had  begun  to  be  pain- 
fully, even  morbidly,  conscious  of  it.  She  was  aware, 
indeed,  of  the  unattractiveness  of  her  whole  appearance, 
which  made  her  dread  the  scrutiny  of  strangers  and 
become  self-conscious,  timid,  and  gauche  as  soon  as  she 
left  the  shelter  of  her  own  home. 

"  Have  the  boys  come  yet  ?"  she  asked,  advancing  a 
step  or  two  down  the  path.  Her  voice  was  low  and 
slightly  husky,  but  it  had  a  veiled  strange  charm  quite 
impossible  to  describe. 

"  No ;  an'  the  dinner  '11  be  spoiled  if  they  don't  come 
soon."  Mrs.  Seawright's  voice  had  no  charm  whatever. 
"  Martin  told  me  he  mightn't  be  home  at  all.  He  says 
they're  so  thronged  with  work  just  now.  I  gave  him 
money  to  get  his  dinner  at  the  cafe." 

"  He's  always  wanting  to  go  to  that  cafe,"  said  the 
girl,  thoughtfully. 

"  I  expect  the  cooking's  good." 

She  was  perfectly  certain  that  her  own  cooking  was 
much  better  (probably  even  Bessie's  was),  and  she 
thought  that  it  was  like  Grace  to  leave  the  remark 
unchallenged. 

"  Here's  Ricky,  at  any  rate,"  the  girl  murmured,  with 


lo     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

a  sudden  and  wonderful  brightening  of  her  whole 
face. 

"Look  at  him!"  Mrs.  Seawright  ejaculated,  sternly 
eyeing  the  dilatory  scholar,  who,  with  one  of  his  com- 
panions, was  carrying  on  a  game  of  chestnuts  ("cheesers," 
as  they  called  it),  which  brought  them  to  a  halt  every  few 
yards.  "  For  all  he  knows  we  might  have  begun  dinner 
ten  minutes  ago !  And  then  he'll  come  in  and  say  he 
was  late  getting  out." 

"  Very  likely  he's  seen  us  standing  here,"  the  girl 
replied  softly. 

Richard  and  his  friend  had  paused  before  Mrs. 
Wilberforce's  gate.  In  turn  each  boy  held  up  a  long 
string  with  a  chestnut  dangling  at  the  end,  while  the 
other  tried  a  shot  at  it.  When  the  shot  missed  the 
strings  sometimes  became  entangled  and  there  was  a  cry 
of  "  Slingers  ! "  with  now  and  then  another  word,  pro- 
duced more  sotto  voce^  from  the  boy  who  had  been 
"  slung,"  that  experience  being  a  decidedly  painful 
one. 

Presently  the  game  came  to  an  end;  the  "friend" 
turned  back;  and  Richard  advanced  alone.  He  was  a 
dark,  brown-skinned  boy,  of  Grace's  own  age,  perhaps. 
The  perfection  of  his  body,  as  admirable  as  that  of  a 
youthful  Greek  divinity,  was  not  entirely  hidden  by  a 
much  worn  and  patched  knickerbocker  suit.  In  feature 
he  bore  a  faint  resemblance  to  his  mother,  but  the  mouth 
had  a  sulky  expression  that  was  accentuated  by  the 
thick  tumbled  locks  of  loose  black  hair  which  dropped 
down  over  the  broad  forehead,  and  by  the  eyes,  which 
were  much  darker  even  than  eyes  that  are  usually  called 
black.  His  ears  projected  like  the  handles  of  an  urn  on 
either  side  of  a  tightly  fitting  cap  worn  at  the  back  of  his 


THE  MOTHER  n 

head,  and  these  ears  were  what  invariably  attracted  his 
mother's  attention.  When  he  had  been  a  httle  boy  she 
had  tried  to  flatten  them  in  to  his  skull  by  strips  of 
plaster,  but  this  careful  training  had  not  produced  the 
result  she  had  hoped  for.  Moreover,  he  had  a  trick  of 
moving  them  which  distressed  her  almost  ludicrously. 
To  the  mother  it  seemed  somehow  to  bring  him  into  a 
startlingly  close  relationship  with  the  quadrupedal 
world.  She  had  a  dim  idea  that  such  powers  in  a  boy 
who  attended  Sunday-school  were  illicit,  the  gifts  of  an 
unspiritual  creature,  and,  though  she  had  never  seen  a 
picture  of  a  faun,  she  conjured  up  in  her  own  mind  a 
vision  of  a  being  not  wholly  dissimilar  to  that  happy 
denizen  of  pagan  woodlands. 

All  his  muscles  were  under  admirable  control.  He 
could  climb  trees  that  other  boys  couldn't  climb.  He 
had  walked,  after  watching  a  cat  do  it,  the  entire  length  of 
Myrtle  Row  upon  a  narrow  parapet  stretching  from  attic 
to  attic.  She  had  nearly  fainted  when  Martin  had  come 
running  in  gleefully  to  describe  this  feat,  and  she  had 
made  Richard  promise  never  to  do  it  again.  But  a  little 
later  she  had  heard  of  his  crossing  the  river  on  broken 
ice,  springing  from  block  to  block  so  quickly  that  he 
had  managed  to  reach  the  opposite  bank  in  safety.  Yet 
he  didn't  play  games  such  as  cricket  or  football.  For 
that  matter,  none  of  the  boys  at  his  school  seemed  to 
play  the  regulation  games.  They  invented  others  of 
their  own;  they  went  out  cHmbing  or  swimming. 
Richard  himself  was  for  ever  pottering  about  a  livery 
stable  where,  so  far  as  she  could  find  out,  he  had  made 
the  acquaintance  of  an  undesirable  person  who  appeared 
to  be  training  him  as  if  to  become  a  professional 
pugilist  or  wrestler.     It  seemed  strange  that  in  spite  of 


12     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

all  this  he  should  be  fond  of  reading  and  high  up  in 
his  class  at  school. 

None  of  these  exploits  appealed  to  her;  nor  did  the 
boy's  character.  It  was  Martin  who  was  the  apple  of 
her  eye.  Not  because  he  was  the  handsomest  boy  she 
had  ever  seen,  though  she  was  quite  convinced  of  that 
too,  but  because  he  was  so  bright  and  pleasant. 
Richard  would  sit  for  hours  without  saying  a  word,  and 
she  never  knew  what  he  was  thinking  about  nor  what  he 
had  been  doing.  Martin  always  chattered  and  was  gay, 
described  everything  that  had  happened  at  school,  and, 
later,  at  the  office — what  so-and-so  had  said,  what  so-and- 
so  had  done.  The  two  brothers  went  each  his  own 
way,  and  these  ways  seemed  never  at  any  point  to 
meet.  They  were  as  completely  out  of  sympathy  as 
only  those  can  be  who  are  temperamentally  opposed 
and  at  the  same  time  obliged  to  live  together.  Mrs. 
Seawright  conceived  it  to  be  the  younger  brother's 
fault. 

"  What  are  you  standing  out  here  for  ?"  Richard 
demanded,  as  he  came  up,  swinging  his  books. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  straight  home  ?  Then  we 
wouldn't  have  to  be  out  looking  for  you,"  his  mother 
returned. 

The  boy,  instead  of  replying,  stood  gazing  down  the 
road.  "Here's  Martin — on  a  car!"  he  suddenly 
ejaculated  in  startled  tones. 

The  woman  and  the  girl  wheeled  round,  and  in  an 
extraordinary  silence  all  three  stood  with  their  eyes  fixed 
in  the  same  direction.  Martin,  as  they  saw,  was  not 
alone,  but  accompanied  by  one  of  his  friends,  Charlie 
McGlade,  and  as  soon  as  the  car  stopped  Charlie  jumped 
down.     "  He's  hurt,"  he  called  out  quickly  to  the  three 


THE  MOTHER  13 

standing  on  the  path.  Next  moment  he  and  the  carman 
were  helping,  almost  lifting,  Martin  down. 

Richard  had  a  strange  sick  feeling,  but  his  first 
glance  was  at  his  mother's  face.  She  had  swung  open 
the  gate  while  the  others  supported  Martin,  who,  white 
as  paper,  managed  to  smile  faintly.  They  carried  him 
up  to  the  house,  and  disappeared  indoors.  Grace  and 
Mrs.  Seawright  followed,  but  Richard  stood  by  the 
horse's  head.  It  was  not  till  the  carman  had  returned 
that  he  ran  up  after  them  to  the  bedroom. 

"We  were  just  gettin'  on  a  tram,"  Charlie  McGlade 
was  explaining.  "  I  was  on,  an'  he  was  gettin'  on,  when 
a  cart  shaft  hit  him  in  the  back.  The  horse  was  walking 
at  the  time,  and  Martin  said  he  wasn't  hurt.  He  went 
up  to  the  top  just  like  as  if  there  was  nothing  the  matter, 
an'  then  he  fainted." 

"I'll  be  all  right,"  Martin  whispered  feebly.  "It's 
when  I  move." 

Mrs.  Seawright  had  turned  to  Richard.  "  You  and 
Charlie  help  him  to  undress.  I'm  going  to  see  if  I  can 
catch  Doctor  Robinson  before  he  goes  out."  She  hastened 
away,  and  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  she  returned,  Martin 
was  safely  in  bed. 

Charlie  now  stood  by  the  window  smiling,  because  he 
always  smiled.  Richard,  solemn-eyed,  gazed  down  from 
the  foot  of  the  bed  at  his  brother  lying  there.  "  Charlie, 
I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  Mrs.  Seawright  began. 
"  Richard,  you  and  Grace  go  on  with  dinner.  The 
doctor'll  be  here  in  a  minute,  and  I'll  come  down  after 
he's  gone." 

"  Come  back  to-night,  Charlie,  if  you've  nothing 
particular  on,"  Martin  murmured,  as  his  chum  was  leav- 
ing the  room.      He  closed  his  eyes,  but  opened  them 


14     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

again  immediately.  "  Richard  or  somebody  had  better 
*phone  to  the  office  to  say  I  won't  be  down  till  the 
morning." 

"All  right;  Til  telephone,"  Richard  gurgled  oddly. 
He  ran  down  quickly  after  Charlie,  who  had  almost 
tumbled  into  the  arms  of  Grace  and  the  open-mouthed, 
loudly  breathing  Bessie,  as  they  stood  waiting  at  the 
foot  of  the  narrow,  steep  staircase. 


Ill 

Richard  lounged  moodily  about  the  shop  and  the 
kitchen.  The  doctor  had  made  his  examination,  and  they 
all  knew  now  that  Martin  had  had  a  very  narrow 
escape.  He  might  easily  have  been  killed,  in  fact  he 
would  have  been  killed  had  the  horse  not  been  walking 
at  the  time.  As  it  was,  he  was  badly  hurt.  The  blunt 
shaft  had  struck  him  below  the  ribs  and  above  the  thigh 
bone,  j  ust  where  there  was  no  protection,  and  his  kidneys 
had  been  bruised.  He  must  lie  on  his  back,  quite  still ; 
he  must  eat  nothing — a  little  milk  and  potash,  that  was 
all  he  was  to  get  at  present.  And  it  would  be  weeks 
before  he  would  be  well  enough  to  go  back  to  his  work. 

Mrs.  Seawright  was  up  in  Martin's  room;  Grace  was 
reading  (she  was  not  allowed  to  practise,  for  the  house 
must  be  kept  perfectly  quiet);  Bessie  was  in  the  shop. 
Richard  thought  of  going  out.  He  had  already  been  to 
the  chemist's  and  back,  and  there  was  nothing  else  he 
would  be  wanted  for — at  any  rate,  Grace  was  there.  The 
girl  irritated  him  as  she  sat  so  quietly  over  her  book, 
raising  her  big  greenish  eyes  from  time  to  time  to  rest 
them  upon  his  face.  She  spoke  in  whispers  when  she 
spoke  at  all,  and  so  did  Bessie,  though  in  the  latter  case 
it  was  like  a  horse  trying  to  whisper.  He  glanced  at 
the  clock  and  saw  that  it  was  nearly  five.  He  put  on 
his  cap.  "  I'm  going  out,"  he  said  abruptly,  and 
disappeared. 

When  he  came  back  he  found  everything  more  or  less 

15 


i6     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

as  he  had  left  it,  save  that  during  his  absence  the  table 
had  been  laid  for  tea.  His  mother  was  still  upstairs; 
the  shop  was  closed;  Bessie  had  gone  home.  He  and 
Grace  sat  down  to  tea  together. 

"  How  is  he  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Just  the  same.     Mr.  Escott  was  here." 

"What  for?" 

"  He  had  heard  about  the  accident.  ...  He  stayed 
for  nearly  twenty  minutes — with  Martin :  and  he  prayed 
down  here  with  us." 

"  With  you  and  Bessie  ?"  He  suppressed  a  sudden 
inclination  to  laugh. 

"  With  mother  and  me.  Mother  asked  him  to.  Mrs. 
Wilberforce  called ;  everybody  seems  to  have  heard." 

Richard  did  not  answer,  but  as  he  ate  his  bread-and- 
butter  his  mind  was  busy. 

"  Martin's  not  in  danger^  is  he  ?"  he  suddenly  asked. 

"No;  I  don't  think  so.  But  you  heard  the  doctor 
saying  what  a  narrow  escape  he  had  had.  .  .  .  Mother 
told  Mr.  Escott  that  she  thought  it  was  a  miracle." 

He  regarded  her  dreamily.  He  had  promised  to  go 
round  to  the  stables  that  night,  and  he  was  speculating 
as  to  how  the  keeping  of  this  engagement  would  appear 
to  the  others.  There  were  some  new  fox-terrier  pups, 
and  he  had  been  promised  one.  He  had  accepted  it,  but 
had  said  nothing  about  it  at  home,  because  he  knew  his 
mother  disliked  dogs.  Better  just  to  bring  it  round 
without  saying  anything. 

Grace,  meanwhile,  had  cleared  away  the  tea-things, 
and  she  now  began  to  wash  them  up.  When  she  came 
back  to  the  kitchen  she  said  :  "Charlie  McGlade  called  on 
his  way  home." 

The  subdued,  solemn  tone  of  her  voice  seemed  to  him 


THE  MOTHER  17 

affected  and  mawkish ;  he  hated  such  femininity.  "  What 
do  you  talk  as  if  you  were  in  church  for  ?"  he  asked 
rudely.  "  It  won't  do  Martin  any  good."  As  soon  as 
he  had  spoken  he  felt  ashamed. 

Grace's  green  eyes  rested  on  him,  but  she  made  no 
reply,  and  her  silence,  with  its  effect  of  meekness,  of 
"  turning  the  other  cheek,"  brought  him  to  his  feet.  He 
took  his  school-books  from  the  shelf,  and  tumbled  them 
down  on  the  table  with  a  bang. 

Her   face   was   charged   with   mild    reproach.     "  Oh, 

Ricky  !     What  do  you  want  to  make  such  a  noise  for  !" 

"  I  don't,"  he  growled  angrily,  "  but  I  don't  see  any 

use  in  all  this  dreariness,  and  I  can't  stand  it — especially 

when  it's  put  on." 

"  Aren't  you  sorry  ?"  Grace  asked  him. 
He  was  furious.  "  I  can  be  sorry  without  sticking  on 
a  face  a  yard  long  and  talking  in  whispers.  It's  just 
like  you.  You  can  never  take  things  naturally,  no 
matter  what  they  are;  you  must  always  work  them  up 
and  make  the  most  of  them." 

Before  Grace  could  reply  the  door  softly  opened  and 
Mrs.  Seawright  came  in.  "  He's  sleeping  now/'  she  said 
quietly,  as  she  turned  up  the  lamp  and  brought  out  a 
basketful  of  stockings  and  socks  that  needed  darning. 

Richard  opened  two  or  three  books,  while  Grace  and 
his  mother  talked  in  subdued  voices  about  Martin, 
about  the  doctor,  about  Mr.  Escott,  about  what  Charlie 
had  said  when  he  had  called  the  second  time,  about  what 
Mrs.  Wilberforce  had  said — the  mother  repeating  the 
same  things  over  and  over  again,  and  Grace  listening 
inscrutably  :  — she  could  always  listen.  For  a  moment 
he  decided  that  he  hated  her.  .  .  . 

He  got  up  and  stretched  out  his  hand  for  his  cap. 


i8     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

which  hung  on  a  peg  near  the  kitchen  press.  He  had  a 
few  seconds  of  intense  anxiety  while  he  took  a  step 
towards  the  door,  but  just  as  his  fingers  touched  the 
handle  his  mother  looked  up  calmly  from  her  work. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I'm  goin'  out,"  he  muttered  indistinctly,  his  speech 
getting  broader  in  his  agitation.  "  Jimmy  Boal's  fox- 
terrier  bitch's  had  pups,  an'  he  wants  me  to  choose  one." 
He  stared  at  liis  boots,  blushing.  "  He  told  me  to  come 
to-niglit  if  I  wanted  one." 

"  How  can  you  think  of  fox-terriers  with  Martin  lying 
dangerously  ill !" 

He  shuffled  his  feet,  turning  his  cap  round  and  round 
in  his  hands  guiltily.  "  Jimmy  told  me  to  come,"  he 
repeated.     "  What  harm  would  it  do  ?" 

"  You  see  quite  enough  of  Jimmy  at  other  times,  and  a 
good  deal  more  than  enough.  I  don't  want  you  to  be 
going  there  at  all — a  boy  like  you  with  a  lot  of  men — 
grooms  and  such.  They're  not  fit  company  for  you. 
How  do  I  know  what  you  pick  up  there  !  Martin  himself 
told  me  only  yesterday  that  you  oughtn't  to  be  going. 
Stop  twitching  your  ears  like  a  rabbit,  and  put  away 
that  cap." 

"  Jimmy  tol'  me,"  he  repeated,  with  the  maddening 
monotony  of  an  obstinate  boy. 

To  his  mother  his  callousness  seemed  appalling.  "  I 
don't  care  what  Jimmy  told  you.  I'm  telling  you  now. 
Sit  down  there  to  your  books." 

"  He  promised  to  let  me  have  the  pick  if  I  came.  If 
I'm  not  there  he'll  give  them  all  away  to  the  others." 

"  The  pick  of  what  ?" 

"  Th'  pups." 

"  Pups  !     What  have  you  got  to  do  with  pups  ?     You 


THE  MOTHER  19 

know  very  well  that  I  won't  have  a  dog  in  the  house. 
Now  of  all  times,  too,  with  Martin  to  be  kept  perfectly 
quiet.     Really,  I'm  astonished  at  you,  Richard  !" 

"It  wouldn't  do  Martin  any  harm.  They  won't  be 
ready  for  bringing  away  just  yet." 

His  mother  sighed.  "  I  wonder  you're  not  ashamed 
to  be  so  obstinate.  You  can  tell  Jimmy  the  next  time 
you  see  him  that  you're  not  allowed  to  keep  a  dog.  You 
might  have  told  him  before.  You're  far  too  great  with 
Jimmy,  that's  what  it  is.  Put  away  your  cap,  and  don't 
let  me  have  to  speak  to  you  again." 

He  did  not  move.  The  vision  of  the  pups  rose  before 
him,  little  animated  balls  of  white  fur,  quaint,  delightful ; 
and  his  lip  trembled.  "  I'd  be  back  in  an  hour,"  he 
muttered. 

Mrs.  Seawright  did  not  look  up. 

"  What  difference  would  it  make  to  Martin  if  I  went  ?" 

He  still  stood  there,  all  the  hopes  that  he  had  cherished 
for  a  fortnight  back  suddenly  dashed  to  the  ground  by 
what  seemed  to  him  his  mother's  unreasonableness.  To 
her,  however,  he  appeared  only  sullen  and  disobedient, 
and  as  she  thought  of  the  boy  lying  upstairs,  who  had 
been  so  near  to  death,  she  felt  a  curious  bitterness  against 
him. 

"  Are  you  going  to  stand  there  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening  ?"  she  asked  coldly.  "  If  you've  no  feeling  for 
your  brother,  you  might  at  least  try  to  hide  your  want 
of  it." 

He  flushed  angrily,  but  he  hung  his  cap  up  on  its  peg 
and  went  back  to  his  seat  at  the  table.  He  bent  over 
his  books,  not  daring  to  look  up  for  fear  Grace  should  be 
watching  him.  The  hours  dragged  on  miserably.  He 
could  not  work,  because  his  mind  brooded  on  what  he 


20     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

considered  to  be  his  mother's  injustice,  and  he  felt  a 
smouldering  resentment  against  Martin. 

As  for  Mrs.  Seawright,  she  knew  that  he  was  only 
pretending  to  be  busy.  When  she  had  finished  the 
stocking  she  was  mending,  she  placed  it  on  one  side  and 
searched  through  the  heap  of  those  lying  still  undarned 
on  the  table  at  her  elbow.  Once  only  her  eyes  rested 
upon  Richard,  and  at  that  moment  he  seemed  an  utter 
stranger  to  her.  The  impression  was  brief,  but  while 
it  lasted  it  affected  her  almost  with  fear.  She  did  not 
understand  him,  but  she  knew  and  understood  the  boy 
who  was  lying  upstairs,  and  her  heart  went  out  to  Martin 
in  a  passion  of  pity  and  yearning. 

The  evening  dragged  on,  restless,  broken  by  listenings 
and  whisperings,  while  they  seemed  to  be  perpetually 
waiting,  though  for  what  nobody  could  have  said.  At 
ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Seawright  went  up  again  to  Martin's 
room.  The  boy  and  girl  sat  on,  Richard  still  with  his 
books  spread  out  before  him,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his 
chin  between  his  hands.  Supper  was  laid,  but  nobody 
appeared  in  a  hurry  to  begin.  He  glanced  up  and 
became  conscious  of  Grace's  hastily  averted  eyes. 
"  What  are  you  watching  me  all  the  time  for  ?"  he  asked, 
ready  to  resume  their  quarrel. 

The  girl  flushed.  "  Why  are  you  so  cross,  Ricky  ?  I 
didn't  know  I  was  watching  you.  It's  rather  hard  to 
please  you  sometimes." 

He  grunted  a  reply  that  might  have  been  anything. 
He  was  conscious  of  his  own  ungraciousness;  he  felt 
lonely  and  deserted ;  but  a  stubborn  pride  kept  him  from 
meeting  Grace's  advances.  "  Fm  sorry  about  the  dogs,** 
she  said  softly,  keeping  back  the  faint  smile  that 
trembled  at  the  corners  of  her  lips. 


THE  MOTHER  21 

At  this  his  indignation  found  vent.  "It's  not  the 
dogs — I  don't  care  about  the  dogs  !  But  you'd  think 
I'd  committed  some  crime  by  wanting  to  go  out  for  an 
hour.  What  harm  would  it  have  done?  What  good 
has  my  sitting  here  all  evening  done  ?" 

Grace  tried  to  pacify  him.  "  Mother  didn't  mean 
anything,"  she  explained.  "Only,  she's  so  anxious 
about  Martin."  She  crossed  the  room  and  put  her  arms 
round  his  shoulder.  She  felt  a  deep  pleasure  as  her  lips 
touched  the  clear,  smooth,  brown  skin  of  his  cheek.  He 
was  angry,  and  his  eyes  were  extraordinarily  beautiful 
when  he  was  angry,  with  little  sparks  of  gold  light 
floating  in  their  sooty  darkness.  Once,  a  few  weeks 
ago,  she  had  dreamed  that  he  was  angry  with  her,  that 
he  had  struck  her,  and  had  then,  in  his  remorse,  been 
infinitely  tender.  She  had  awakened  trembling  with  a 
strange  joy  that  she  had  not  understood  and  yet  had 
half  understood.     Her  cheeks  had  been  wet  with  tears. 

The  sound  of  a  footstep  upon  the  creaking  stair  made 
her  draw  back  quickly.  Mrs.  Seawright  came  in. 
"  He's  still  asleep,"  she  told  them.  "  I've  made  up  the 
fire.  ...  Be  very  quiet,  Richard,  when  you're  un- 
dressing." 

"  You're  not  going  to  sit  up,  mother,  are  you  ?"  Grace 
asked.     "  The  doctor  said  there  was  no  need  to." 

"  I  can  look  after  him,"  said  Richard,  sulkily. 

The  mother  smiled.  "  You'd  better  get  your  sleep.  I 
expect  I'll  be  in  once  or  twice  to  see  that  everything's  all 
right,  so  that  if  you  hear  me  you'll  know  what  it  is." 

They  said  good-night,  and  he  and  Grace  went 
upstairs,  while  down  in  the  hall  Mrs.  Seawright  locked 
and  bolted  the  front  door. 

Richard  entered  the  bedroom  on  tip-toe.     There  was 


22     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

no  need  to  light  a  candle,  for  the  fire  was  blazing,  and 
he  undressed  before  it,  and  put  on  his  nightshirt.  He 
stepped  softly  over  to  Martin's  bed  and  looked  down 
at  his  brother  lying  there  asleep.  In  the  firelight  he  was 
not  very  pale,  not  nearly  so  pale  as  Richard  had 
expected  to  see  him.  He  gazed  at  him  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  returned  to  the  fire.  He  did  not  feel 
sleepy.  Dark  shadows  flickered  over  the  walls,  and  the 
brass  knobs  of  Martin's  bed-posts  gleamed  like  the  gold 
in  a  treasure  cave.  In  the  deep  quiet  the  only  sound  was 
the  sound  of  the  burning  coals.  He  felt  forlorn  and 
miserable.  What  his  mother  had  said  to  him  still 
rankled  in  his  mind.  She  had  always  cared  more  for 
Martin — always — always.  Then  suddenly  he  realized 
that  mstead  of  pitying  his  brother  he  was  cherishing  a 
feeling  of  anger  against  him.  Instantly  he  was  filled 
with  remorse.  He  remembered  all  their  past  disagree- 
ments, all  his  past  unfriendliness.  Suppose  Martin 
should  die !  If  he  died  he  would  perhaps  go  to  hell ! 
The  thought  stabbed  him  into  wakefulness.  He  saw  it 
in  all  its  horror — Martin  writhing  and  moaning  in 
abominable  torments.  And  he  had  no  doubt  at  all  now 
that  if  Martin  died  he  would  go  to  hell — just  as  he  him- 
self would,  supposing  he  were  at  this  moment  to  be 
killed.  He  knelt  down  and  prayed,  prayed  that  Martin 
might  get  well.  A  thought  occurred  to  him,  that 
perhaps  God  would  spare  his  brother  if  he  were  to  offer 
himself  as  a  substitute.  No  sooner  had  the  idea  come 
into  his  mind  than  it  loomed  up  with  a  sort  of  sinister 
plausibility,  as  if  to  compel  him  to  make  a  choice.  He 
tried  to  put  it  from  him,  but  a  voice  within  him 
whispered,  "  You  must  choose  now.  If  you  keep  silent, 
that  means  that  you  are  asking  God  to  let  Martin  die. 


THE  MOTHER  23 

You  must  either  offer  to  die  for  him  or  refuse  to  do  so. 
Are  you  willing  to  die  instead  of  your  brother  ?  If  not, 
what  are  you  doing  there  on  your  knees?  You  know 
that  your  mother  would  prefer  it,  so  that  there  are  two 
against  one.  Decide  then ;  don't  be  a  hypocrite.  Is  it 
to  be  Martin  or  you  ?" 

A  crowd  of  old  jealousies  swept  up  in  his  mind,  like 
fallen  leaves  in  a  gust  of  wind,  and  he  scrambled  to  his 
feet.  He  remembered  all  the  innumerable  little  details 
that  went  to  make  up  the  formidable  total  of  his  sense 
of  wrong.  It  was  as  if  this  last  choice,  too,  had 
been  forced  sardonically  upon  him  by  Martin.  He 
remembered  how  if  he  had  ever  made  a  friend  it  was 
only  a  matter  of  time  before  that  friend  turned  from  him 
to  his  brother.  It  was  as  if  Martin  attracted  them 
deliberately.  He  was  sure,  indeed,  that  sometimes  he 
had  done  this.  He  had  watched  the  charm  acting  again 
and  again,  too  proud  to  make  any  struggle  to  retain 
what  was  not  given  freely.  Why,  even  Charlie  McGlade 
had  been  his  friend  first.  Martin  was  the  only  person 
who  knew  that  he  was  jealous,  and  the  knowledge 
amused  and  pleased  him.  .  .  .  And  he  had  nothing  in 
him;  nothing  really  but  this  inexplicable  power  to 
attract  people.  He  was  not  stupid,  but  he  was  shallow 
and  unintelligent.  It  was  only  a  few  months  ago  since 
he  had  had  himself  tattooed — an  elaborate  design  upon 
his  body.  He  had  saved  up,  he  had  suffered  consider- 
able pain,  in  order  to  have  it  done,  and  he  was  as  proud 
of  it  as  if  it  had  been  some  rare  distinction.  Richard 
had  been  sworn  to  secrecy  because  it  was  impossible  to 
hide  it  from  him,  and  on  certain  suitable  occasions,  when 
a  door  could  be  locked  and  privacy  secured,  Martin 
would  divest  himself  of  his  clothing  and  exhibit  this 


24     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

rare  work  of  art  to  his  more  intimate  chums.     What  a 
fool! 

He  started,  once  more  shocked  by  the  sense  that  he 
was  sinning  against  his  brother,  thinking  unkindly  of 
him.  It  was  horrible.  He  curled  himself  up  before  the 
hre,  and  lay  gazing  at  the  moving  flames.  Gradually 
he  grew  drowsy,  and  at  last  he  fell  asleep.  But  his  sleep 
was  uneasy,  and  his  brain  still  continued  to  work.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  standing  in  an  immense  and 
stifling  darkness.  He  could  see  nothing,  but  he 
knew  that  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss  empty, 
bottomless,  the  very  abyss  of  space.  In  his  mind  a  sense 
of  wrong  still  burned,  though  he  had  forgotten  the  cause 
>f  his  anger,  knowing  only  that  someone  had  done  him  a 
supreme  injury.  He  wanted  to  draw  back  from  the 
gulf  at  his  feet,  but  he  could  not.  And  then, 
from  an  infinite  depth  below,  there  rose  a  cry,  faint, 
prolonged,  and  in  the  end  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
rising  to  a  scream.  It  was  Martin's  voice.  He  stood 
motionless  and  trembling,  his  anger  beaten  back  by  a 
cold  wave  of  dread.  He  remembered  now,  clearly  and 
abominably,  that  he  had  pushed  Martin  over,  had  thrust 
him  down  to  death.  And  yet  he  was  not  dead,  he  would 
never  die,  and  the  crying  all  at  once  grew  plaintive  and 
thin,  like  the  whimpering  of  a  child,  and  at  last  like  the 
shrill  whistling  of  a  lonely  wind. 

He  started  up,  wakened  by  the  horror  of  his  dream. 
Nothing  had  changed,  yet  he  felt  a  difference.  His 
glance  turned  first  to  the  bed  where  Martin  still  lay 
quietly  sleeping ;  then  to  the  fire  which  had  burned  to  a 
deep  red  glow.  He  heard  the  kitchen  clock  strike  two ; 
he  must  have  slept  for  nearly  three  hours.  A  sudden 
uneasiness  seized  him,  and  he  rose  and  softly  approached 


THE  MOTHER  25 

the  bedside.  Martin  lay  on  his  back,  but  with  his  head 
turned  partially  round  on  the  white  pillow.  His  long 
black  eyelashes  were  shghtly  parted,  yet  when  Richard 
bent  down  he  could  not  see  the  dark  eyes,  but  only  a 
faint  gleam  of  silver— a  tiny  silver  streak,  like  the  thin 
edge  of  a  crescent  moon.  He  had  a  sudden  fear,  and 
bent  lower  still,  listening  for  Martin's  breathing.  He 
could  hear  no  sound,  and  just  then  the  fire  fell  in  with 
a  little  crash,  and  a  flame  flickered  up,  throwing  a  rest- 
less band  of  light  across  the  bed.  He  touched  Martin 
very  softly,  putting  his  hand  over  his  breast,  but  he  could 
feel  no  feeblest  flutter  there.  Richard  sank  on  his  knees 
and  hid  his  face  in  the  bedclothes.  A  dry  sob  escaped 
him,  though  he  shed  no  tears.  He  had  murdered  his 
brother ;  he  was  a  murderer ;  he  was  damned.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  call  anybody.  Martin  was  dead,  and  he 
had  killed  him,  had  killed  him  by  his  wicked  thoughts. 
God  had  heard  them,  and  now  for  the  rest  of  his  life 
he  would  be  like  Cain. 

There  was  a  movement  and  a  faint  sigh  from  the  boy 
lying  in  the  bed.  Richard's  heart  leaped.  He  put  out 
his  hand  and  took  his  brother's.  It  was  warm,  and 
Martin's  eyes  opened  wide.  His  mouth  opened,  too,  as 
if  to  call  out,  but  the  sound  that  issued  through  his 
parted  lips  was  thin  and  faint  as  the  rustle  of  a  dry  leaf. 
"  Who's  there  ?     What  is  it  ?"  he  whispered. 

« It's  me— Ricky." 

But  Martin  had  already  dropped  asleep  again.  A 
deep  breath  of  thankfulness  came  from  the  kneeling  boy. 
He  still  held  his  brother's  hand,  and  he  pressed  his  lips 
to  it  passionately  and  suddenly  began  to  cry,  noise- 
lessly, childishly,  burying  his  face  in  the  counterpane. 
He  lifted  his  head  at  the  sound  of  the  opening  door,  and 


26     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

the  taste  of  his  own  tears  was  salt  upon  his  tongue.  It 
was  his  mother.  She  came  in  very  quietly,  a  lighted 
candle  in  her  hand.     She  saw  him  at  once. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  child,  out  of  bed  ?"  she  asked 
softly.     "  Is  anything  the  matter  ?" 

Richard  got  up.  A  sudden  shame  at  being  found 
there,  kneeling  beside  Martin,  made  him  angry  and  shy. 
He  was  angry  with  his  mother  for  having  detected 
him — she  might  even  have  noticed  that  he  had  been 
crying. 

But  Mrs.  Seawright  was  too  preoccupied  with  Martin 
to  think  of  anything  else.  She  bent  down  over  the 
sleeping  boy,  shielding  the  candlelight  from  him,  and 
her  hard  face  grew  infinitely  tender.  Then  the 
wretched  thought  flashed  into  Richard's  mind,  "  She 
never  looked  like  that  at  me,"  and  he  drew  back,  his 
face  stiffening  into  a  dark  pride  even  while  the  tears  were 
still  wet  upon  his  cheeks.  His  mother  busied  herself  for 
a  minute  or  two,  smoothing  the  bedclothes.  When  she 
turned  to  the  fire  and  began  noiselessly  to  put  on  fresh 
coal  Richard  was  already  in  bed. 

"  Why  aren't  you  asleep  ?"  she  asked  him.  "  Aren't 
you  comfortable  ?" 

"  Quite  comfortable,  thanks,"  he  answered  coldly.  "  I 
only  got  up  for  a  minute." 

She  had  been  going  to  kiss  him,  but  the  coldness  in 
his  voice  discouraged  her,  and  she  only  gave  him  a 
rather  sad  "  Good-night "  as  she  closed  the  door  behind 
her. 

Then  upon  the  room  she  had  just  quitted  a  profound 
silence  fell.  Once  only  it  was  broken  by  a  strange, 
disquieting  sound,  as  of  a  sharply  caught  breath,  a  sound 
that  unpleasantly  suggested  the  presence  of  something  in 


THE  MOTHER  27 

pain.  It  was  not  repeated,  though  there  followed  a 
faint  rustling,  such  as  might  be  made  by  a  person 
wrapping  himself  more  closely,  more  comfortably  maybe, 
among  his  bedclothes ;  and  the  sound,  after  all,  had  been 
so  muffled  that  there  was  little  chance  of  its  having 
awakened  Martin. 


IV 

It  was  three  weeks  before  Martin  was  on  his  feet  again, 
looking  very  white  and  thin,  and  it  would  be  another 
three  weeks,  the  doctor  said,  before  he  would  be  really 
fit  to  go  back  to  work.  Then  one  evening,  to  the 
surprise  of  everybody,  the  grandfather  from  Cresslough 
turned  up,  a  rough,  rheumatic  old  man,  smelling  strongly 
of  spirituous  refreshment  imbibed  during  the  journey, 
and  with  a  skin  like  dirty  leather.  He  had  received 
Mrs.  Seawright's  letter,  and  had  come  with  the  intention 
of  taking  the  invalid  back  with  him.  In  honour  of  "  the 
old  boy's  "  visit — it  was  the  first  and  last  he  ever  paid 
at  Myrtle  Row — Richard  stayed  at  home  from  school 
next  morning,  and,  as  the  hours  passed  and  the  "old 
boy  "  grew  more  and  more  difficult  to  entertain,  the  day 
took  on  an  increasing  likeness  to  Sunday,  an  illusion 
fostered  by  the  combined  influences  of  roast  beef,  best 
clothes,  and  the  tediousness  of  having  to  sit  still  and 
do  nothing.  Fortunately,  the  traveller  departed  at  one 
o'clock,  and  to  beguile  the  long  afternoon  Mrs.  Seawright 
proposed  a  walk  in  the  country.  They  could  leave 
Bessie  in  charge  of  the  post-office.  She  and  Grace  would 
go  at  any  rate ;  Richard  might  do  as  he  pleased.  Only, 
if  he  wasn't  coming,  he  was  to  change  his  clothes. 
Accompanied  by  Grace  she  went  upstairs  to  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  dolman,  leaving  her  son,  in  a  divided  frame 
of  mind,  kicking  his  heels  against  the  legs  of  a  kitchen 
chair. 

38 


THE  MOTHER  29 

"Where  are  you  going  to?"  he  asked,  when  his 
mother  reappeared. 

Mrs.  Seawright  suggested  the  cemetery,  an  exhilarating 
idea  that  found  favour  with  both  Grace  and  Richard. 
They  started  in  the  cold  bright  October  weather,  after 
giving  Bessie  repeated  instructions  concerning  the 
kitchen  fire.  Autumn  was  well  advanced.  The  scarlet 
creeper  that  covered  Mrs.  Wilberforce's  house  had 
already  lost  some  of  its  leaves,  though  there  were  still 
a  few  yellow  roses  in  the  garden,  and  next  door  Professor 
Lanyon's  dahlias  and  purple  clematis  were  magnificent. 
Mrs.  Seawright  and  her  companions — one  on  either  side 
of  her — walked  briskly,  for  the  air  was  sharp.  They 
made  directly  for  the  cemetery,  which  was  situated  on 
an  open  stretch  of  rising  ground  at  the  foot  of  the  Black 
Mountain.  They  crossed  the  dreary  expanse  of  the  l.x)g 
meadows,  passed  the  Cats'  and  Dogs'  Home  and  tlie 
huge  football-ground,  with  its  hideous  walls  of 
corrugated  iron,  emerging  on  the  upper  road  at  a  spot 
directly  opposite  the  cemetery  gates.  Here  the  ground 
rose  steeply,  its  green  surface  broken  by  innumerable 
white  and  grey  monuments,  and  threaded  with  dark 
trim  paths.  The  hard  silhouettes  of  a  few  cypresses,  and 
the  softer  outlines  of  the  trees  in  the  park  alongside, 
stood  out  against  a  pale  blue  sky;  while  beyond,  yet 
quite  close,  was  a  dark  low  range  of  hills,  the  air  from 
which  blew  down,  fresh  and  cold.  Now  and  then  a  puff 
of  wind  sent  a  shower  of  dead  leaves  whirling  and 
dancing  over  the  grass  beneath  the  park  wall,  and  it  was 
in  this  direction  that  Mrs.  Seawright,  slowly  and  with 
many  pauses,  bent  her  steps.  At  length  she  came  to  a 
standstill  before  a  grave  which,  like  most  of  its  com- 
panions    hereabouts,     was     undistinguished     by     any 


30     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

memorial  stone.  It  was  so  long  since  Richard  had 
visited  it  last  that  by  himself  he  could  not  have  found  it, 
but  he  knew  it  was  the  grave  in  which  his  father  lay.  In 
this  portion  of  the  cemetery,  allotted  to  the  poorer 
classes,  no  cypresses  grew,  but  the  trees,  a  little  thinned 
by  autumn  gales,  were  planes  and  beeches.  Between 
their  branches  the  grounds  of  the  park  were  visible,  while 
with  every  puff  of  wind  dead  leaves  were  whirled  in 
showers  about  the  graves  and  along  the  cinder  paths. 
Here  they  danced,  rustled,  pirouetted,  fluttered  like 
brown  desiccated  butterflies,  before  they  took  up  a 
temporary  resting-place  in  some  sheltered  nook,  or  under 
the  lee  of  the  wall.  A  faint  damp  smell  arose,  filled  with 
suggestions  of  melancholy  and  languor. 

A  bird  alighted  upon  Mr.  Seawright's  grave,  and 
began  to  hop  about  among  the  long  grass.  All  at  once  it 
ducked  its  head  sharply,  and  next  moment  they  could 
see  it  dragging  up  an  enormous  worm,  which  it  valiantly 
proceeded  to  swallow.  Richard  laughed,  but  when  he 
glanced  at  his  mother  and  Grace  he  saw  that  they  looked 
shocked. 

They  walked  on,  making  a  circuit  of  the  place.  A 
woman  in  black,  heavily  veiled,  was  bending  over  a 
freshly  made  grave,  arranging  some  draggled  white 
chrysanthemums  in  a  jam-pot,  with  movements  infinitely 
slow  and  listless.  The  caretaker,  in  uniform,  passed 
behind  her,  and  when  he  had  walked  on  for  half  a  dozen 
paces,  turned  and  stared  brutally.  From  the  road 
below  came  the  noise  of  passing  trams. 

Up  at  the  north  end  of  the  enclosure  a  burial  service 
was  being  conducted.  In  the  green  grass  the  dark, 
gaping  hole,  with  a  pile  of  red  earth  beside  it,  looked 
strangely    sinister.     The   coffin    was    lowered    as    they 


THE  MOTHER  31 

passed,  and  they  heard  the  grating  sound  of  the  rope 
rasping  against  the  wood,  and  the  words  of  the  clergy- 
man, "  Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,"  followed  by  the 
hollow  pattering  of  a  handful  of  soil  dropped  by  the 
gravedigger. 

It  was  all  very  ugly  and  depressing,  yet  Mrs. 
Seawright  seemed  to  derive  a  deep  pleasure  from  gazing 
at  the  tombstones.  The  more  elaborate  of  these  she 
pronounced  "  beautiful,"  or  "  very  handsome,"  as  seemed 
fitting,  and  sometimes  she  even  hazarded  a  guess  as  to 
what  they  might  have  cost.  Richard  was  sure  that 
secretly  she  yearned  to  put  a  stone  up  over  his  father's 
grave.  This,  indeed,  was  precisely  what  Mrs.  Sea- 
wright had  in  mind  as  she  wandered  in  and  out  among 
the  maze  of  crossing  paths.  The  fact  that  she  considered 
her  husband  to  have  been  a  poor  specimen  of  humanity 
in  no  way  diminished  the  pleasure  she  derived  from 
erecting,  in  imagination,  something  "  beautiful "  to 
commemorate  him,  something  "  very  handsome "  that 
people  would  stop  to  admire,  with  his  name  in  black 
letters  and  spaces  left  for  the  names  of  others  not  yet 
deceased.  She  pondered  appropriate  texts — "  The  Lord 
gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away :  blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord.  .  .  ." 

Richard  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches.  Below  the 
cemetery,  and  beyond  the  bog  meadows,  the  town,  laid 
out  in  uniform  streets  of  little  red  houses,  had  in  the  clear 
air  a  quaint  appearance  that  reminded  him  of  the  towns 
he  used,  not  so  very  long  ago,  to  build  out  of  toy  bricks ; 
but  farther  to  the  left,  above  the  city  proper,  hung  a  blue 
cloud  of  smoke,  through  which  tall  mill  chimneys  and 
the  grey  spires  of  churches  pierced,  slender  and  dark. 
Farther  still,  over  Belfast  Lough,  the  atmosphere  cleared 


32     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

again,  and  the  clouds,  streaked  with  silver,  drifted  like 
fantastic  birds,  the  swan-maidens  of  fairyland.  The  boy 
saw  beauty  in  all  this,  but  he  could  see  none  in  the 
marble  angel  with  the  broken  harp  that  his  mother 
called  upon  Grace  and  himself  to  admire. 

Sitting   there,  waiting   for  the  others,  his   thoughts 
wandered    to   his    dead    father.     This    person,    it    was 
probable,  had  been,  to  say  the  least,  unsatisfactory  in  life, 
but  death  had  thrown  a  romantic  haze  about  him.     His 
idea  of  his  father — who  had  died  when  Richard  was  six 
— was  indeed  of  a  rather  brilliant,  delightful  person, 
always  coming  and  going  in  an  exciting  atmosphere  of 
presents.     The   presents   may  or   may   not   have   been 
acquired   at  other  people's  expense,  but  that   seemed 
somehow  to  matter  little  now,  and  the  actual  circum- 
stances  of  his   death   made   him    pitiful   and    human. 
Richard  was  the  more  inclined  to  this  view  because  he 
guessed    that    his    father    had    never    been    forgiven; 
certainly  his  name  was  never  by  any  chance  mentioned. 
All  the  details  of  that  futile,  hopeless  story  had  been 
carefully  kept  from  the  children,  but  enough  had  leaked 
out   to    give    Richard    a    general    idea    of    what    had 
happened.     Poor  Mr.  Seawright,  showy,  weak,  and  un- 
deniably amiable,  had  been  entrusted  with  the  collection 
of  moneys  of  some  kind,  and  there  had  been  dishonesty, 
exposure,  perhaps  even  a  prosecution.     It  was  all  vague, 
and  in  a  sense  unreal;  some  day,  maybe,  he  would  ask 
Mr.  Escott,  but  he  could  never  question  his  mother.  .  .  . 
"  Don't  you  think  we  had  better  be  going  soon  ?"  he 
at    last    suggested,    seeing    patient    Grace    and    Mrs. 
Seawright  gravitating  slowly  towards  yet  another  angel. 
"  Well,  I  suppose  they'll  be  shutting  in  a  few  minutes." 
Mrs.  Seawright  admitted  this  reluctantly ;  but  the  light 


THE  MOTHER  33 

was  waning,  and  they  appeared  to  have  the  place  now 
entirely  to  themselves.  Even  the  caretaker  had 
vanished,  and  the  heavy  clang  of  an  iron  gate  in  the 
distance  suddenly  startled  them.  They  hurried  down 
the  steep  path  to  the  main  entrance.  "  How  lonely  it 
must  be  here  at  night !"  the  boy  thought,  with  a  slight 
shiver.  He  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  an  hour 
after  the  last  person  was  gone.  The  appalling  stillness 
rose  before  him — a  stillness  broken  perhaps  by  sinister 
rustlings  and  tappings;  and  as  they  passed  the  little 
chapel  he  thought  it  even  now  looked  ghostly  and 
different,  could  imagine  a  pallid  light  suddenly  appear- 
ing in  one  of  the  windows. 

But  out  on  the  main  road,  and  with  the  noise  of  trams, 
and  the  light  of  street-lamps  to  make  the  darkness  warm 
and  living,  these  gruesome  fancies  vanished.  It  was  on 
their  way  home  that  his  mother,  without  any  pre- 
liminaries, produced  the  startling  question,  "  How  would 
you  like  to  leave  school,  Richard,  and  go  to  business  ?" 


31 


"  To  leave  school !"  he  echoed  blankly,  but  a  glance  at 
Grace  told  him  that  the  question  had  already  been  dis- 
cussed in  all  its  bearings. 

"  You're  old  enough,"  Mrs.  Seawright  continued.  "  If 
you  have  to  serve  your  time  the  way  Martin  has,  you'll 
be  past  twenty  before  you  begin  to  earn  anything  worth 
talking  about." 

He  was  silent,  overwhelmed.  "  When  do  you  want  me 
to  leave  ?"  he  asked  at  length,  in  the  subdued  tones  of 
one  facing  the  inevitable. 

His  manner  vexed  Mrs.  Seawright.  It  was  as  if  he 
thought  she  were  condemning  him  to  some  unmerited 
punishment.  "  Whenever  you  can  get  a  start,"  she 
replied  a  little  dryly.  "  You'll  have  to  watch  the  papers 
and  answer  advertisements." 

He  was  sure,  however,  that  there  was  something  much 
more  definite  than  this  in  her  mind,  and  it  presently 
came  out.  "  There  was  one  yesterday,  wanting  a  boy  as 
apprentice  to  the  tea  trade." 

"  The  tea  trade  ! "  he  repeated  with  emotion. 

"  Yes."  Her  voice  grew  a  little  sharper  in  spite  of  her 
desire  to  be  perfectly  kind. 

"  But  how  could  I  leave  now  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?     What's  to  prevent  you  ?" 

"  It's  the  middle  of  term." 

34 


THE  MOTHER  35 

"  That  makes  no  difference.  It's  more  important  that 
you  should  get  into  a  good  place  than  that  you  should 
finish  your  term." 

He  gazed  at  her  tragically.  She  could  not  compre- 
hend him,  for  he  must  have  known  that  his  schooldays 
were  drawing  to  an  end. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  business,"  he  mumbled. 

Mrs.  Seawright  checked  an  exclamation  of  impatience. 
"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Richard.  You  surely 
understand  as  well  as  I  do  that  you  have  to  earn  your 
living  like  everybody  else.  What  did  you  think  you 
were  going  to  do  ?" 

"  I It's  not  that  .  .  ."  he  answered  de- 
jectedly. 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  I've  kept  you  at  school  longer 
than  I  kept  Martin.  I  happened  to  notice  this  advertise- 
ment last  night,  and  I  thought  it  might  be  an  opening 
for  you.  Very  likely  nothing  will  come  of  it.  You  may 
be  at  school  for  another  six  months  before  you  get  any- 
thing. All  I  want  is  for  you  not  to  miss  any  chances. 
And  when  you've  five  years  to  serve  you  can't  start  too 
soon.  You'll  not  be  long  getting  used  to  it.  Look  how 
Martin  Hkes  it." 

"  I  won't  like  it." 

His  mother  was  ready  enough  to  humour  him  as  far 
as  possible,  so  she  did  not  press  this  point.  "  What  do 
you  want  to  do  yourself  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  know  you're 
fond  of  books,  and  that,  but  I  can't  afford  to  send 
you  to  college.  Have  you  been  thinking  of  any- 
thing ?" 

"  I  don't  know."  He  did  know,  but  he  was  sure  his 
mother  would  not  approve  of  what  he  knew. 


36     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

He  glanced  at  Grace,  but  Grace  had  an  air  of  supreme 
detachment,  as  if  the  question  were  of  absolutely  no 
interest  to  her.  She  belied  this  next  moment,  however, 
by  suddenly  announcing,  "  He  wants  to  write  " 

"  To  write !"  Mrs.  Seawright  kept  a  library,  yet 
she  quite  failed  to  grasp  the  implication  of  these 
words. 

"  Books,"  Grace  explained  further.  "  He's  always 
writing  poetry." 

"Well,  I  never!"  Mrs.  Seawright  could  not  help 
laughing,  though  she  rarely  laughed. 

Richard  turned  crimson.  "  I  don't  want  to  do  any- 
thing of  the  sort,"  he  cried  angrily.  "  I  want  to  go  into 
the  stables.  I  could  get  a  job  there.  Jimmy  would  get 
me  one." 

Grace  regarded  him  gravely,  and  then  with  a  faint 
smile. 

He  had  no  arguments,  nothing  at  all  to  say,  and  Mrs. 
Seawright  dismissed  the  idea  at  once  with  all  the 
definiteness  he  had  expected.  She  connected  stables 
with  horses,  and  horses  with  racing,  and  racing  with 
"  bookies,"  and  "  bookies  "  with  a  portion,  at  least,  of  the 
troubles  of  the  late  Mr.  Seawright,  whom  she  did  not 
want  to  connect  with  anything  further,  not  even,  now, 
with  a  "  handsome  "  tombstone. 

"  I'll  ask  Mr.  Escott  to  come  in  to-night,  and  you  can 
talk  things  over  with  him,"  she  said,  but  even  this  con- 
cession failed  to  cheer  Richard  up.  He  had  quite  known 
how  his  mother  would  take  his  suggestion,  and  what  was 
the  use  of  discussing  it  with  the  curate  ?  he  would  rather 
discuss  it  with  Jimmy. 

As  they  passed  the  house  where  Mr.  Escott  lodged  (it 


THE  MOTHER  37 

was  in  Myrtle  Row,  at  the  postman's),  Mrs.  Seawright 
stopped  to  inquire  if  he  were  in,  sending  Grace  and 
Richard  on  to  get  tea  ready  and  allow  Bessie  to  go  home. 
She  could  hear  the  curate  whistling,  and  next  moment 
he  came  running  downstairs  in  a  dressing-gown  and  a 
pair  of  extremely  striking  carpet  slippers,  looking,  as 
usual,  very  untidy.  He  was  short  and  stout,  far  from 
handsome.  He  did  not  even  look  particularly  clean, 
which  proves  the  deceptiveness  of  appearances,  for  he 
had  just  been  taking  a  bath.  An  attractive,  half- 
comical  expression  peeped  out  from  his  intelligent 
eyes.  Mrs.  Seawright  considered  him  to  be  decidedly 
odd. 

Nevertheless,  she  thought  very  highly  of  Mr.  Escott, 
and  she  did  more  now  than  to  ask  him  to  come  round 
and  talk  to  Richard ;  she  prepared  the  way  beforehand 
by  mentioning  her  son's  unfortunate  ambition.  She  had 
expected  Mr.  Escott  to  be,  if  not  shocked,  at  least 
astonished,  but  he  was  neither.  She  had  in  fact  to 
explain  to  him  the  reason  of  her  disapproval,  and  even 
then  he  did  not  seem  immensely  impressed.  "  Of  course 
I'll  come  and  talk  to  him,"  he  promised,  "but  it 
would  be  much  better  if  you  sent  him  round  here.  You 
see,  unless  we're  alone  he  won't  tell  me  anything ;  he'll 
be  shy.  .  .  .  It's  rather  beautiful  in  a  way,  the  shyness 
of  youth — nearly  everything  that's  young  is  beautiful." 
He  sighed.  "  Send  him  round  at  half-past  seven ;  I've  a 
meeting  at  eight.  Or  perhaps  that  is  unkind.  Send 
him  round  at  half-past  nine.  Then  he  can  unburden  his 
soul  till  midnight — though  I  really  don't  see,  exactly, 
where  I  come  in.  .  .  .  I  don't  think  you  quite  under- 
stand him,  Mrs.  Seawright — not  so  well  as  you  under- 


38     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

stand  your  other  boy.  He's  got  more  in  him,  and  he 
feels  things  more.  Of  course  you  don't  believe  me.  I 
like  him  better  than  the  other.  Send  him  round  at  half- 
past  nine,  and  I'll  give  him  all  the  good  advice  I  can 
think  of." 


VI 

At  half-past  nine  Richard  found  the  curate,  a  pipe  in 
his  mouth,  stooping  over  the  fire,  making  toast.  He 
waved  a  welcome  with  the  fork.  "  Take  a  chair.  You*d 
better  take  a  cushion  too.     I  hope  you're  fond  of  toast." 

Richard  accepted  this  genial  invitation,  and  gazed  at 
Mr.  Escott's  back.  He  mentioned  shyly  that  he  had  had 
supper  before  coming  in. 

"  All  the  same,  you  must  have  some  with  me.  Have  an 
apple,  anyway." 

"  My  mother  told  me  to  ask  you  if  I  might  use  your 
name  as  a  reference  ?" 

"A  reference  to  what, dear  child  ?"  He  rose  with  a  slight 
grunt,  and  went  to  the  sideboard  for  the  apples.  The 
boy  glanced  about  the  room.  He  could  not  understand 
why  Mr.  Escott  should  live  in  such  a  place. 

"  Admiring  my  ornaments  ?  They're  really  the  land- 
lady's, down  even  to  the  photographs." 

The  boy  was  silent.  The  pictures  of  elegant,  high- 
born ladies  in  languid  attitudes,  the  plush  frames,  the 
bright  wall-paper — all  these  things  vaguely  distressed 
him,  though,  as  in  the  case  of  the  very  similar  adorn- 
ments of  his  own  home,  he  did  not  quite  know  what  was 
wrong  with  them.  Suddenly  he  became  conscious  of  a 
reluctance  to  produce  the  manuscript  that  made  so  bulky 
an  appearance  in  his  jacket  pocket. 

Mr.  Escott  surveyed  him  with  an  amused  sympathy. 
"  About  this  reference,"  he  said ;  "  what's  it  for  ?" 

39 


40    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

Richard  opened  a  pocket-book.  He  explained  that 
he  was  answering  Messrs.  Wynch  Brothers'  advertise- 
ment for  a  "  respectable,  well-educated  youth  as 
apprentice  to  the  wholesale  tea  and  sugar  trade."  He 
produced  the  advertisement  as  he  spoke,  and  also  his 
application,  the  latter  immaculately  written  on  a  sheet 
of  glazed  notepaper.  Mr.  Escott  spread  it  out  upon  the 
table-cloth. 

"  Dear  Sirs, 

"  In  answer  to  your  advertisement  in  to-day*s 
'Northern  Herald  I  beg  to  offer  myself  as  an  apprentice 
to  your  firm.  I  am  fifteen  and  a  half  years  of  age,  a 
Protestant  (Church  of  Ireland),  and  should  I  obtain  the 
position  will  do  everything  in  my  power  to  give 
satisfaction. 

"  I  remain, 

"  Yours  respectfully, 

"Richard  Seawright. 

"  P.S.  As  references  1  beg  to  offer  the  names  of 
Herbert  Wilberforce,  Esquire,  3,  Blenheim  Gardens ;  and 
Rev.  Charles  Escott,  M.A.,  2,  Myrtle  Row;  who  have 
known  me  for  many  years." 

Mr.  Escott  reflected  that  he  had  seen  Richard  for  the 
first  time  some  eight  months  ago,  but  he  allowed  the 
inconsistency  to  pass.  "  Well,  that  ought  to  fetch  'em," 
he  remarked.  "And  what  do  you  think  I  know  about  you, 
Ricky,  in  spite  of  our  long  acquaintance  ?" 

"  You  know  I'm  respectable,  I  suppose,"  answered 
Richard,  who  thought  the  curate  lacking  in  seriousness. 
"  Mrs.  Wilberforce  allowed  me  to  use  Mr.  Wilberforce's 
name,"  he  added. 


THE  MOTHER  41 

"  And  if  you  get  this  job — as  I've  no  doubt  you  will 
when  they  see  you — will  you  be  greatly  pleased  ?" 

Richard  did  not  reply  until  he  had  had  time  to  give 
the  question  due  consideration.  Then  he  said  am- 
biguously :  "  My  mother  wants  me  to  get  it." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  boy  fumbled  at  the  folded 
papers  in  his  pocket.  "  I  brought  you  some  poems,"  he 
muttered  indistinctly,  without  looking  at  his  companion. 
"  Grace  said — I  mean,  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  be  able 
to  tell  me  if  they're  any  good."  He  straightened  the 
manuscript  nervously,  but  appeared  loth  to  do  anything 
more  till  Mr.  Escott  stretched  out  his  hand.  Then  he 
sat  with  flushed  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  while  the  curate 
turned  the  leaves. 

After  a  preliminary  inspection  Mr.  Escott  began  to 
read  in  a  sort  of  undertone  that  was  perfectly  audible 
to  the  author  and  made  him  feel  immensely  uncomfort- 
able. His  verses  sounded  now  incredibly  childish,  and 
the  pain  of  listening  became  at  last  unbearable.  He 
wished  that  he  hadn't  brought  them.  It  was  Grace  who 
had  told  him  to,  but  he  ought  to  have  had  more  sense. 

"  Please  don't  read  out  aloud,"  he  said  at  last,  and  the 
curate  stopped  at  once. 

"  Sorry." 

But  the  silence  now  seemed  even  worse,  and  Richard 
watched  each  page,  as  it  was  turned,  with  a  growing 
misery. 

Half-way  through  the  manuscript  Mr.  Escott  paused, 
and  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  youthful  poet  with  a  sort 
of  perplexity. 

"  You  see,  these  may  be  good,  or  they  may  be  bad," 
he  sighed,  "  but  how  the  deuce  am  I  to  know  ?  I  don't 
think  I'm  even  very  sure  what  they're  about." 


42     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

Richard  fidgeted  nervously.     His  dark  eyes  shone. 

"They're  just  little  songs,  aren't  they? — about  birds 
and  trees  and  flowers  and  clouds  ?  You're  a  regular 
Saint  Francis."  He  gazed  at  the  manuscript  again,  but 
without  reading  any  further. 

"  Your  mother  didn't  mention  anything  about  this," 
he  went  on,  a  little  helplessly,  as  the  taciturn  poet  offered 
no  explanation  of  his  work.  "  You've  no  idea,  of  course, 
of  trying  to  make  a  start  in  journalism  ?  That  wasn't 
one  of  your  plans,  was  it  ?" 

Richard  shook  his  head. 

"  I  think  you're  very  wise.  I've  a  cousin  who  writes," 
he  continued,  gliding  easily  off  on  to  a  side  issue.  "  He 
lives  in  London.  He's  a  dramatic  critic  on  one  of  the 
dailies,  but  he  does  a  lot  of  other  work.  He's  a  remark- 
able person,  immensely  superior;  I  wish  I  could  have 
produced  him  for  you,  though,  personally,  I  detest  him. 
Still,  I  suppose  he's  what  is  called  successful.  I'll  send 
him  these,  if  you  like." 

Richard  mumbled  his  thanks. 

"  And  in  the  meantime  I  think  you  ought  to  post  your 
letter  to  Messrs.  Wynch  Brothers." 

The  boy's  silent  attentiveness  really  touched  him  more 
than  his  tone  betrayed,  for  who  could  tell  what 
disappointment  lay  behind  it?  He  smiled  sym- 
pathetically. "  I  don't  see,  you  know,  why  you  shouldn't 
write  poetry  and  be  a  tea  merchant  at  the  same  time." 

It  was  kinder  to  put  it  in  this  way  than  to  tell  him  to 
throw  his  manuscripts  into  the  fire.  Nevertheless,  he 
had  a  suspicion  that  the  kindness  was  not  particularly 
satisfactory,  was  not  even  particularly  honest. 

"  You  don't  think  they're  any  good,  then  ?"  said 
Richard,  unexpectedly. 


THE  MOTHER  43 

Mr.  Escott  compromised.  "  All  I  think  is  that  I'm  not 
qualified  to  express  an  opinion.  You  see,  I  don't  like 
any  poetry.  I  mean,  I  never  read  it,  and  really  know 
nothing  about  it.  Let  us  wait  till  we  get  the  great  man's 
verdict.  He's  a  small-souled  person,  but  I  presume  he 
knows  his  trade.  Besides,  he  might  be  useful — you 
never  can  tell."  He  looked  at  the  foolscap  again,  with 
its  round  boyish  scrawl.  He  felt  rather  ashamed.  "  The 
spelling's  a  little  queer,  here  and  there.  .  .  .  You  won't 
mind  my  making  one  or  two  alterations  ?" 

Richard  once  more  thanked  him,  and  got  up  to  go. 

Mr.  Escott  was  slightly  taken  aback.  "  But  we  haven't 
mentioned  what  you  really  came  to  see  me  about,  have 
we  ?"  he  asked.     "  Your  mother  said  something " 

"About  the  stables?"  Richard  interrupted.  "I 
promised  her  that  I  would  apply  for  this  other  job." 

"  Then  you've  made  up  your  mind  ?  Of  course,  in 
that  case " 

"  I  promised  mother  before  I  came  out." 

He  left  the  room,  filled  with  disappointment,  and  Mr. 
Escott,  who  came  downstairs  with  him,  was  perfectly 
aware  of  it. 

Outside,  the  night  was  clear,  and  a  full  moon  hung 
over  the  trees  in  the  Botanic  Gardens,  As  the  poet  stood 
dejectedly  watching  it  and  thinking  of  the  letter  to 
Messrs.  Wynch  Brothers  he  was  about  to  drop  into  the 
post-box,  the  Wilberforces  passed  on  their  way  home — 
from  a  concert  probably.  They  were  chattering  and 
laughing,  and  the  girls  had  white  fleecy  wraps  about 
their  heads.  Richard,  from  the  other  side  of  the  road, 
watched  them  gloomily.  There  was  a  light  burning  in 
Professor  Lanyon's  study.  The  blinds  were  not  pulled 
down,  and  he  could  see  into  the  room.     And  to  the  boy 


44     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

these  things — the  girls'  wraps,  the  professor's  book-Hned 
walls — were  symbols  of  a  brilliant  and  inaccessible  life 
from  which  he  had  permanently  been  shut  out  by  the 
accident  of  birth. 

The  old  moon  looked  down  mildly  upon  him,  trying 
to  remind  him  of  the  songs  he  had  so  often  sung  to 
her,  and  to  tell  him  that  poets  were  favourites  of  hers, 
even  when  they  wore  india-rubber  collars,  even  when  their 
verses  were  very  bad ;  but  to-night  he  could  not  under- 
stand her,  and  imagined  that  she  was  too  sad  and  lonely 
and  far  away  ever  to  have  cared. 


VII 

The  reply  from  Messrs.  Wynch  Brothers  came  by  the 
first  post  on  Monday,  and  took  the  form  of  a  request 
that  Mr.  Seawright  would  perhaps,  if  convenient,  call 
some  time  during  the  morning.  On  the  strength  of  this 
the  mother  decided  that  he  must  get  a  new  suit  of 
clothes.  Long  trousers,  in  her  opinion,  were  essential  to 
the  production  of  a  favourable  impression  upon  the 
mercantile  mind,  and,  leaving  things  in  the  charge  of 
Bessie  and  Grace,  with  Richard  by  her  side  she  started 
for  town. 

Here,  in  a  huge  shop,  where  ready-made  garments 
were  displayed  upon  the  rigid  forms  of  artificial  youths 
with  pink  cheeks  and  glass  eyes,  Richard's  measure  was 
taken,  and  in  a  box-like  dressing-room  he  was  permitted 
to  don  the  attire  of  maturity.  The  mother,  regardless  of 
protests  delivered  in  a  muffled  undertone  so  as  not  to 
reach  the  shopman's  ears,  had  chosen  the  clothes  herself, 
mainly  with  an  eye  to  their  durability  and  to  the  fact 
that  he  was  "growing  every  day" ;  but  she  was  not  easily 
satisfied,  and  by  the  time  he  emerged  from  the  dressing- 
room  he  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  several  of 
the  shop  assistants  were  taking  a  keen  interest  in  the 
process  of  his  transformation.  He  also  made  the 
discovery  that  while  he  had  been  hidden  from  view  his 
mother  had  bought  him  a  tie.  It  was  a  distinctly  notice- 
able tie,  a  bright,  gay  specimen  of  its  class — pink,  with 
a  shining  surface  that  imitated  satin.     Richard  regarded 

45 


46     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

it  tragically,  while  his  mother  administered  sundry  little 
tugs  to  his  jacket  and  waistcoat. 

"  I  can't  wear  that,  you  know,"  he  whispered. 

"  Why  not  ?"  Mrs.  Seawright  demanded ;  and  a  shop- 
walker, who  had  been  circling  round  them,  scrutinizing 
the  "  young  man  "  from  various  knowing  angles,  thought 
it  would  go  nicely  with  the  grey  suit.  In  his  opinion  it 
looked  "  smart " ;  and  it  was  also  his  opinion  that  the 
clothes  were  a  perfect  fit,  the  trousers  perhaps  on  the 
long  side,  but  all  they  wanted  was  bracing  up. 

"  Because  I'm  not  going  to,"  said  Richard  angrily, 
ignoring  the  shopwalker.  "  I  wouldn't  be  caught  dead 
in  it." 

He  saw  that  his  mother  was  hurt  by  this  reflection 
on  her  taste,  but  the  thought  of  walking  through  the 
streets  in  his  new  clothes  and  with  that  pink  tie  was 
unbearable.  "We  can  change  it,"  he  said  desperately, 
as  he  watched  his  mother's  impassive  face.  An  acute 
misery  trembled  in  his  voice,  and  Mrs.  Seawright, 
shrugging  her  shoulders,  turned  away  from  him.  She 
was  not  pleased.  "  You  always  let  Martin  choose  his 
own  things,"  he  went  on  reproachfully. 

"  Martin's  a  year  older  than  you,  and  he  pays  for  them 
himself."  But  she  let  him  have  his  way,  though  she  sniffed 
audibly  when  in  reaction  from  pink  sateen  he  selected 
the  plainest  of  black  poplins.  It  turned  out,  too,  that 
the  poplin  was  more  expensive. 

"  You'll  be  needing  a  hat,"  the  mother  reflected  coldly. 

The  hat  department  was  pointed  out  to  them,  and 
Richard  was  fitted  with  a  bowler,  which  he  somehow  felt 
added  the  crowning  touch  to  the  conspicuousness  of  his 
appearance.  They  emerged  into  the  busy  street,  gazed 
upon,  as  he  imagined,  by  every  eye,  and  made  their  way 


THE  MOTHER  47 

in  the  direction  of  Messrs.  Wynch  Brothers.  People 
did  look  at  him,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but  it  was  because 
of  his  personal  beauty,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  his 
clothes.  A  tram  passed,  and  when  he  saw  that  it  was  a 
Malone  car  he  suggested  that  his  mother  should  take  it. 

She  stared.  "Why  would  we  take  it?"  she  asked. 
"  We'll  go  now  and  get  the  interview  over.  I  can't  be 
coming  trapesing  into  town  three  or  four  times  a  day." 

"But — you're— not  coming?"  he  faltered  miserably, 
ready,  in  spite  of  the  long  trousers  and  the  bowler  hat, 
to  cry  with  vexation  at  the  shame  of  it. 

"  Of  course  I'm  coming,"  she  returned  firmly. 

"Oh,  you  can't — you  can't,"  he  said  passionately, 
catching  her  hand  and  jerking  her  to  a  sudden  standstill. 
A  message  boy  with  a  basket  on  his  head  made  a  face  at 
him,  and  he  could  have  sprung  at  his  throat.  The  boy 
paused  on  the  curbstone  at  a  distance  of  a  few  yards, 
and  grinned  derisively  at  the  scene  in  progress.  In  a 
moment  he  was  joined  by  a  companion,  then  by 
another. 

Richard  turned  his  back  on  them.  "  I  must  go  by 
myself,"  he  went  on  quickly,  in  the  same  tragic  under- 
tone.    "  Please  let  me  go  by  myself." 

She  gazed  at  him  a  moment.  Then,  as  if  a  light  had 
dawned  upon  her :  "  Are  you  ashamed  of  me  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  You  know  it's  not  that,"  he  whispered,  with  a  mixture 
of  indignation  and  reproach.  "  But  I  can't — with  you 
there.  ...     I  won't  go  at  all — I  won't — I  won't.  .  .  ." 

He  saw  that  she  was  offended,  and  much  more  deeply 
than  she  had  been  about  the  tie.  The  thought  that  he 
had  hurt  her  distressed  him  acutely.  And  he  could  not 
explain  what  it  was  that  made  the  idea  of  her  accom- 


48     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

panying  him  seem  so  calamitous.  She  must  not  come. 
He  did  not  want  her  to  come.  He  did  not  want  to  have 
a  lot  of  clerks  staring  at  her,  to  see  her  asking  favours. 
She  mustn't  come ;  she  mustn't  come. 

She  did  not  understand  in  the  least,  but  she  saw  that 
he  was  profoundly  moved,  and  gave  way.  "  Well,  I 
suppose  I  may  go  and  do  some  shopping,  at  any  rate — 
you  won't  object  to  that !"  She  glanced  up  at  the  Albert 
Memorial  clock.  "  You'll  not  be  very  long,  I  dare  say. 
I'll  meet  you  here  in  half  an  hour.  .  .  .     Though  what 

harm  I'd  do "     Her  features  relaxed  in  an  austere 

smile  as  she  saw  the  look  of  relief  that  came  into  his 
face. 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  he  muttered  clumsily. 

"  You're  a  queer  boy,  I  must  say.  But  I  suppose  it*s 
no  use  talking.  And  you  needn't  let  it  worry  you  if 
you're  not  successful.  If  you  don't  get  this  place,  you'll 
get  another.     It's  not  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

He  left  her  there  and  hastened  on  alone,  fearful  lest 
she  should  change  her  mind  and  decide  to  follow  him. 
He  walked  quickly  till  he  judged  this  danger  to  be 
past;  then  he  slackened  his  pace.  He  paused  before  a 
shop  window,  in  whose  plate  glass  he  saw  himself 
reflected.  Then  he  blushed  and  averted  his  eyes  hastily. 
As  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  street  the  large  grey  stone 
building  where  Messrs.  Wynch  Brothers  carried  on  their 
business  rose  before  him  with  an  alarming  suddenness. 
Instantly  he  felt  a  sinking  sensation  in  his  stomach. 
Before  the  fateful  door  stood  a  dray  laden  with  chests  of 
tea,  waiting  to  get  in  at  the  gateway.  The  big  brown 
horse,  having  been  a  member  of  the  firm  for  several  years, 
was  sufficiently  free  from  nervousness  to  be  shaking  oats 
from  his  nosebag,  while  a  gigantic  carter,  with  a  black 


THE  MOTHER  49 

beard  and  a  short  clay  pipe,  leaned  against  the  shaft  and 
eyed  Richard  benevolently. 

He  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  and  entered. 
Nothing  dreadful  happened.  A  little  man  with  an 
armful  of  tins  tied  up  in  brown  paper  passed  out  as  he 
was  going  in,  and  nodded  to  him ;  a  sound  of  voices  and 
laughter  came  from  an  apartment  on  the  left.  A  yellow 
clock  on  the  wall  made  a  wheezy  and  ineffectual  attempt 
to  strike  the  hour.  Richard  lifted  his  eyes  to  it  and 
became  conscious  of  a  youth  clad  in  dusty  linen  who 
stood  watching  him  from  the  top  of  a  flight  of  stairs. 
As  soon  as  their  eyes  met  the  youth  disappeared  through 
a  swing  door,  which  banged  behind  him.  Richard 
advanced  to  the  counter  on  his  right,  and  stood  there 
waiting.  He  saw  a  tall,  thin,  elderly  person  working  at  a 
desk,  but  was  too  timid  to  try  to  attract  his  attention, 
so  the  tall,  thin,  elderly  person  continued  to  work  for 
several  minutes  in  obliviousness  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  being  examined  most  minutely.  Richard  indeed 
thought  his  appearance  remarkable.  He  had  sandy 
hair  and  a  sandy  beard.  His  teeth  were  very  white  and 
very  prominent,  jutting  out,  like  tombstones,  with  an 
effect  of  a  perpetual  and  somewhat  ghastly  smile. 
Hollow-cheeked,  pale,  he  looked,  if  not  exactly 
emaciated,  extremely  anaemic.  He  wore  a  grey  tail- 
coat, and  as  he  worked  at  his  ledger  displayed 
astonishing  lengths  of  bony  wrist  and  knuckly  fingers. 
Presently  he  raised  his  head,  coughed,  and  two  very 
pale  blue  eyes,  so  pale  as  to  be  almost  colourless, 
encountered  two  extraordinarily  dark  ones.  Richard 
had  removed  the  bowler,  and  was  clutching  it  in  both 
hands.  His  black,  lustreless  hair  tumbled  loosely  over 
his  forehead.     The  tall  thin   person   advanced   with   a 

4 


50     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

white,  skull-like  smile,  and  in  a  high-pitched  voice 
wished  him  "  Good-morning." 

"  Good-morning,  sir.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Wynch.  I 
had  a  letter  telling  me  to  call." 

He  had  barely  given  utterance  to  this  desire  when  a 
fussy  little  man  emerged  from  an  inner  office,  calling 
out :  "  Mr.  Jackson  !     Is  Mr.  Jackson  there  ?" 

The  tall  thin  person,  who  reminded  Richard  of  the 
rider  on  the  pale  horse  in  the  book  of  Revelation,  replied 
in  the  affirmative.  "  This  boy  wishes  to  speak  to  you, 
sir,"  he  added. 

Mr.  Wynch  turned  abruptly.  Small,  lean  and  wiry, 
he  had  a  keen,  rather  shrunken,  face,  with  shrewd  little 
eyes,  and  an  air  of  mingled  youth  and  age  that  sug- 
gested a  kind  of  withered  evergreen.  His  quick  eyes 
travelled  all  over  Richard  and  the  new  suit  before  he 
took  a  step  or  two  forward,  and  a  smile  passed  rapidly 
across  his  face.     "  You  are  Mr.  Richard  Seawright  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  That's  right.  Just  come  this  way,  Richard."  He 
put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder  and  pushed  him 
towards  a  room  which  was  like  a  parlour,  except  that 
a  big  green  iron  safe  stood  in  one  corner. 

"  You  might  bring  me  his  letter,  Mr.  Jackson,"  he 
called  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Sit  down — sit  down."  He  motioned  Richard  to  a 
leather-covered  chair.  He  himself  remained  standing, 
and  when  Mr.  Jackson  appeared  with  the  letter  grabbed 
it  so  unceremoniously  that  he  appeared  to  snatch  it  out 
of  the  other's  hand.  He  read  the  letter,  and  then 
turned  it  over  as  if  looking  for  something  on  the  back, 
while  he  emitted  two  or  three  sharp  dry  little  coughs. 
"  You  wrote  this  yourself  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  remarkable 


THE  MOTHER  51 

suddenness,  that  might  have  appeared  designed  had 
its  effect  not  been  contradicted  by  an  absent  expression 
in  the  httle  grey  eyes. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Richard  murmured. 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  Mr.  Wynch 
appeared  to  be  working  out  a  calculation  not  at  all 
connected  with  new  apprentices.  Then  he  coughed 
again,  and  became  aware  that  he  was  interviewing  a 
boy.  "  Well,  Richard,  you  write  an  excellent  hand. 
Don't  spoil  it.  I  often  find  that  the  young  fellows 
coming  here  write  a  good  hand,  but  after  a  little  they 
become  careless  and  allow  it  to  develop  into  a  scrawl 
that  nobody  can  read.  Keep  all  your  letters  round; 
don't  cramp  them  up.     It's  important — very  important." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Richard  agreed. 

"  And  so  you  think  you  would  like  to  learn  the  tea 
trade  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  if  you're  a  good  boy,  I  don't  see  why  you 
shouldn't."  The  quick,  flickering  smile  came  again. 
"  You  are  a  good  boy,  I  hope  ?"  The  question  popped 
out  with  that  remarkable  abruptness  which  was 
apparently  a  peculiarity  of  Mr.  Wynch's  manner. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

A  twinkle  in  the  small  shrewd  grey  eyes  made 
Richard  suspect  that  the  last  inquiry  had  been  jocular, 
but  he  could  not  be  sure.  In  any  event,  Mr.  Wynch 
seemed  to  accept  his  word. 

"  That's  right— that's  right.  Well,  Richard,  I'm  very 
busy  just  now,  so  I  won't  keep  you.  Our  terms  are 
fifty  pounds  for  five  years.  The  hours  nine  till 
five." 

"  Yes,  sir."     He  had  an  idea  that  this  was  where  his 


52     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

mother  would  have  come  in,  for  the  terms  struck  him 
as  disappointing. 

"  That's  settled  then,  is  it  ?  When  can  you  come  ? 
To-morrow  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well  then,  to-morrow.  Be  a  good  boy,  and  we'll  do 
what  we  can  for  you." 

Before  he  realized  what  had  happened  Richard  found 
himself  out  in  the  street  again.  He  had  expected  to  be 
put  through  some  form  of  examination,  he  had  expected 
all  kinds  of  questions,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  got  off  wonderfully  easily.  The  gigantic  carter 
was  still  leaning  against  the  shaft  of  the  dray,  the 
brown  horse  was  still  shaking  out  his  oats,  but  they 
had  now  become  Richard's  brothers,  fellow  members  of 
the  same  firm.  He  walked  quickly  back  to  the  corner 
where  he  was  to  meet  his  mother,  and  hovered  about 
there  in  a  vastly  elated  frame  of  mind.  At  length  he 
saw  her  coming.     "  Well  ?"  she  said. 

He  blushed  and  smiled.  "  Well !  I'm  to  begin 
to-morrow  morning.     It's  fifty  pounds  for  five  years." 

He  tried  to  make  this  sum  sound  imposing,  but 
Mrs.  Seawright  was  not  impressed.  Her  reply  was 
disconcerting. 

"  Nonsense.  You'll  get  a  hundred  pounds  or  you 
won't  go.     This  comes  of  doing  things  by  yourself." 

"  But  he  said  that  that  was  what  they  always  gave," 
Richard  answered,  doubtfully.  "  If  the  others  only  get 
fifty  I  can't  ask  for  more." 

"  I  can,  then ;  and  it's  either  a  hundred  or  you  look 
out  for  another  place.  Martin  and  Charlie  McGlade 
and  all  the  other  boys  get  twenty  pounds  a  year.  I'll 
write  when  I  get  back." 


THE  MOTHER  53 

Richard  said  nothing.  He  would  very  much  have 
preferred  that  his  mother  should  not  write,  but  he  knew 
there  was  no  use  arguing  the  point,  and,  moreover,  he 
had  an  idea  that  Mr.  Wynch  would  not  refuse.  He 
had  a  strange  shy  feeling  that  he  would  like  to  celebrate 
the  occasion  by  taking  his  mother  to  dine  somewhere — 
at  a  restaurant — but,  unfortunately,  no  portion  of  even 
the  fifty  pounds  had  as  yet  found  its  way  into  his 
pocket.  So  they  waited  for  their  tram,  standing  side 
by  side,  at  Gibson's  Corner. 


VIII 

When   they  came   in   Grace   Mallow   looked    at  them 
expectantly. 

"  Well,  he*s  got  it,"  Mrs.  Seawright  announced. 
"  That  is,  if  they'll  be  reasonable  about  terms." 

"  Oh,  Fm  glad,"  the  girl  said  simply.  She  followed 
Richard  into  the  kitchen,  where  he  stood  self-consciously, 
with  his  back  to  the  range  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

"  When  are  you  to  begin  ?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

"  To-morrow." 

"  You  look  so  nice  ! "  she  murmured,  though  she  knew 
it  was  exactly  the  kind  of  thing  he  hated  her  to  say. 

He  blushed  and  frowned.  "  Did  my  other  clothes 
come?     They  promised  to  send  them." 

"Yes;  they're  in  your  room." 

He  went,  whistling,  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  she 
watched  him  go  with  a  peculiar  wistfulness.  There  had 
been  no  flattery  in  her  words,  for  she  loved  his  dark 
handsome  face,  with  its  tumble  of  black  hair.  She  went 
into  the  scullery,  and  looked  at  her  own  countenance 
in  the  little  square  looking-glass  that  hung  there  for 
Bessie's  convenience,  looked  at  the  dull  pallor  of  her 
skin,  at  the  grey-green  eyes.  With  a  sort  of  morbid 
resolution  she  even  pulled  back  her  hair  so  that  the 
deep  stain  splashing  down  her  forehead  became  fully 
visible.     A   horrible   idea   had   come   to   her,   that   the 

54 


THE  MOTHER  5$ 

more  she  felt  about  things  the  ugHer  she  grew.  .  .  . 
She  had  only  her  music.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Wilberforce,  chancing  to  be  in  the  post-office  that 
afternoon,  stood  for  a  minute  or  two  listening  to  her, 
and  remarked  to  Mrs.  Seawright,  distracted  by  other 
cares,  that  "that  girl"  certainly  played  with  great 
expression.  Next  morning,  hearing  her  own  daughters, 
Fanny,  Ethel  and  Dora,  practising  difficult  exercises 
from  eleven  till  two,  she  decided  that  their  performances 
were  lacking  in  this  quality — particularly  Dora's — and 
resolved  to  speak  about  it  to  their  teacher;  which  she 
did — rather  sharply. 

But  Mrs.  Seawright,  though  pleased  by  the  compli- 
ment paid  to  Grace,  had  been  too  preoccupied  really  to 
derive  from  it  all  the  pleasure  that  she  might  have.  A 
very  delicate  problem  hovered  before  her,  and  she 
returned  to  it  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Wilberforce,  snapping 
her  purse,  had  departed.  It  had  been  worrying  her  for 
a  week  or  two  back,  and  sometimes  she  had  thought 
that  she  would  consult  Mr.  Escott  (to  one  of  whose 
sermons  the  problem  indeed  owed  its  existence),  and 
again  she  had  decided  that  she  wouldn't.  What 
seemed  to  make  it  just  now  so  particularly  pressing 
was  her  consciousness  that  Richard  was  about  to  embark 
on  a  new  life  in  which  he  would  be  surrounded  by  older 
and,  for  all  Mrs.  Seawright  knew,  less  desirable  com- 
panions. She  had  heard  of  the  temptations  that  beset 
unwary  youth  in  large  cities,  and  somehow,  perhaps 
because  of  his  peculiar  reserve,  it  was  difficult  to  know 
whether  for  Richard  such  temptations  would  prove 
powerful  or  weak.  At  all  events,  she  had  been  told 
that  ignorance  was  dangerous.  It  was  inexpressibly 
distasteful  to  her  to  mention  matters  of  such  a  kind  to 


56     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

her  own  son,  and  in  Martin's  case  she  had  never  done 
so;  but  Richard  was  different.  He  was  not  so  frank, 
she  thought,  and,  rightly  or  wrongly,  she  could  not  feel 
the  same  confidence  in  him. 

That  evening,  after  she  had  written  her  letter  to 
Messrs.  Wynch  Brothers,  she  sat  turning  over  these 
thoughts  in  her  mind,  now  inclining  to  one  view,  now 
to  another.  It  was  ajready  eight  o'clock,  and  probably 
Grace  would  soon  be  coming  downstairs.  In  the  mean- 
time she  and  Richard  were  sitting  alone  together  before 
the  kitchen  fire,  so  that  the  opportunity  to  say  what 
she  had  to  say  was  an  excellent  one.  She  searched  in 
her  mind  for  a  suitable  way  to  open  the  subject.  He 
was  reading,  and  from  time  to  time  she  glanced  at 
him  over  her  work.  Her  face  reflected  the  agitation 
of  her  thoughts  only  in  a  slight  tightening  of  the  lips 
and  in  the  odd,  hesitating  looks  she  bent  upon  her 
son.  He  was  so  unfathomable,  so  reserved,  and  some- 
times, as  this  morning,  for  instance,  he  behaved  so 
strangely.  She  had  never  been  able  to  pet  him  as  she 
had  petted  Martin;  he  had  never  seemed  to  want  to 
be  petted.  She  supposed  there  must  be  natures  like 
that,  natures  that  were  self-sufficient.  Yet  every  now 
and  again  she  had  had  a  brief  uneasy  feeling  that 
all  was  not  well.  Perhaps  he  was  more  sensitive  than 
she  believed  him  to  be.  She  hoped  he  was.  In  any 
case  she  was  glad  that  she  had  never  made  any 
difference  between  the  boys — none,  that  was,  that  could 
possibly  be  avoided — though  this  careful  impartiality  of 
treatment  had  not  been  easy  to  maintain. 

She  found  that  her  thoughts  were  wandering  from 
the  main  issue,  and  brought  them  back  to  it  again. 
Meanwhile,  he  had  stopped  reading,  and  was  sitting 


THE  MOTHER  57 

staring  into  the  fire,  while  the  kettle  sang,  and  the 
music  of  Grace's  piano  grew  suddenly  more  dreamy  and 
undecided.  Mrs.  Seawright  noticed  what  she  had 
never  noticed  before,  that  his  face  had  a  distinct  tinge 
of  melancholy,  and  that  this  was  not  just  a  reflection 
of  the  mood  of  the  moment,  but  was  a  part  of  the  whole 
cast  of  his  features.  Grace  had  stopped  playing — 
perhaps  she  had  finished  for  the  evening.  Mrs. 
Seawright  glanced  at  the  clock. 

But  no — Grace  had  begun  again.  She  was  playing, 
very  softly,  Mendelssohn's  Spring  Song.  Mrs.  Sea- 
wright cleared  her  throat,  and  her  stitches  became 
somewhat  erratic.  .  .  . 

She  had  barely  spoken  a  dozen  words  when 
Richard's  face  began  to  betray  a  bewilderment  that 
rapidly  passed  into  something  else.  She  had  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  her  work,  but  she  looked  up  at  him 
as  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  was  gazing  at  her  in 
amazement,  a  deep  angry  blush  flaming  to  the  roots  of 
his  hair.  Then,  before  she  could  utter  another  syllable, 
he  had  left  her,  shutting  the  kitchen  door  behind  him. 
She  heard  the  hall  door  slam.     He  had  gone  out.  .  .  . 

The  mother  sat  on,  sewing  determinedly.  The 
music  of  the  Spring  Song  sounded  softly  through  the 
little  house,  and  presently  a  tear  ran  down  Mrs. 
Seawright's  ruddy  cheek,  though  her  firm  mouth  did 
not  tremble.  Grace  continued  to  play  for  long — much 
longer  than  usual.  After  a  while  Mrs.  Seawright  rose 
and  set  out  the  supper  things.  Then  she  sat  down 
again  before  the  fire  that  was  now  beginning  to  burn 
low.  .  .  . 

A  long  time  seemed  to  her  to  elapse  before  she  heard 
the  front  door  open,  and  then  the  kitchen  door.     She 


58     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

knew  it  was  Richard  come  back,  but  she  did  not  look 
round.  His  supper  was  waiting  for  him,  and  she 
expected  him  to  go  straight  to  the  table.  She  listened. 
She  wondered  what  he  was  doing,  for  she  could  hear 
no  sound.  Then  she  heard  him  move,  come  over  to 
the  chair  beside  hers,  and  begin  to  unlace  his  boots. 
She  did  not  speak.  Her  work  lay  neglected  in  her 
lap.  Then  suddenly  she  felt  a  hand  slip  into 
hers.  .  .  . 

Her  work  slid  to  the  ground  as  she  drew  him  to  her, 
drew  his  head  down  on  her  breast  and  kissed  the  thick 
black  tumbled  hair,  while  her  tears  fell  noiselessly.  .  .  . 

In  the  room  above  the  music  ceased,  and  there  was 
a  sound  of  a  chair  being  pushed  back.  The  mother 
and  son  separated.  Mrs.  Seawright  picked  her  work 
up  from  the  floor,  and  when  Grace  entered  Richard 
was  drawing  his  chair  in  to  the  supper  table.  She 
joined  him,  but  Mrs.  Seawright  still  sat  on  by  the 
fire. 

She  was  thinking  of  Richard,  and  then  by  insensible 
gradations  her  thoughts  slid  away  to  the  days  of  her 
own  youth.  Looking  at  Grace,  she  thought  of  Henry 
Mallow,  whom  she  had  loved,  and  whose  daughter  she 
had  been  able  to  befriend.  She  thought  of  her  married 
life,  of  Charles  Seawright,  good-tempered,  handsome, 
easy  to  live  with,  but  appallingly  weak  and  untruthful. 
A  bitterness  came  into  her  face.  At  the  end  of  a  few 
months  she  had  realized  that  Charles  Seawright  was 
not  to  be  trusted,  and  from  that  time  on  her  mind 
had  been  haunted  by  a  sense  of  insecurity  and  fear. 
She  had  learned  that  it  is  possible  to  be  all  that  he 
had  at  first  seemed  to  her,  and  yet  to  be  morally  so 
flabby    that    even    virtues    turn    to    vices.     His    whole 


THE  MOTHER  59 

nature  sapped  by  weakness,  he  appeared  unable  to  make 
even  the  feeblest  struggle  in  the  face  of  difficulties.  He 
could  only  take  the  easiest  way  out,  no  matter  if  it 
led  to  the  disgrace  and  ruin  of  everyone  belonging  to 
him.  It  was  dreadful  to  think  of,  but  his  death  had 
brought  her  before  all  else  a  sense  of  relief  and  of  danger 
just  escaped.  It  had  been  a  poor  death,  yet  on  the 
whole  it  had  not  been  quite  so  poor  as  the  life.  There 
had  been  every  chance  that  he  would  have  failed  here 
too,  but  by  some  miracle  he  had  not  failed.  Only,  Mrs. 
Seawright  could  never  forgive  him. 


PART    SECOND 
THE   APPRENTICE 


He  had  been  told  nine  o'clock,  and  he  had  several 
minutes  to  spare  when  he  arrived  next  morning  at  the 
office.  He  found  the  doors  of  Messrs.  Wynch  Brothers 
closed,  and  the  blinds  in  the  tall  windows  pulled  down, 
though  a  number  of  men  lounged  before  the  entrance. 
Richard  shyly  approached  the  verge  of  this  group.  He 
had  already  been  recognized  by  the  large  carter,  who 
addressed  several  remarks  to  him,  mildly  facetious  in 
character.  Others  joined  in.  All  were  very  friendly 
and  familiar,  and  a  short,  thick-set,  grey-haired  man, 
with  one  shoulder  hunched  up  towards  his  ear,  and  the 
head  of  a  good-natured  Socrates,  informed  him  that 
the  doors  would  be  opened  when  Mr.  Hamilton  arrived. 
He  imparted  this  information  in  a  kind  of  benevolent 
growl,  and  Richard  strolled  as  far  as  the  corner,  where 
he  stood  till  he  saw  a  slim,  dark  young  man  ride  up 
on  a  bicycle.  This  personage — tremendously  grown-up 
and  important,  with  a  small,  pointed,  black  moustache, 
and  rather  pleasant  eyes — took  no  notice  of  the  new 
apprentice,  but  unlocked  the  doors  and  wheeled  in  his 
bicycle.  He  was  followed  by  the  men  and,  last  of  all, 
by  Richard  himself.  From  a  cupboard  under  the  stairs 
brooms  and  buckets  were  produced.  Very  soon,  in 
spite  of  a  liberal  sprinkling  of  water,  the  air  became 
thick  with  dust. 

Meanwhile,    Mr.    Hamilton,    the    senior    apprentice, 
gazed  abstractedly  through  the  glass  door  at  the  people 

62 


THE  APPRENTICE  63 

passing  in  the  street.  From  time  to  time  he  executed  a 
step  or  two  of  a  clog-dance,  and  even  broke  into 
occasional  song.  Presently  he  noticed  Richard,  like 
one  of  the  timid  disciples,  hovering  in  uncertainty  not 
far  from  him,  and  smiled.  He  held  out  his  hand. 
"  You're  the  new  apprentice  ?  That  blighter  Douglas 
should  have  been  down  to  show  you  round.  It's  just 
like  him  not  to  turn  up.  You'd  better  get  out  the 
books." 

He  conducted  Richard  to  a  safe  whose  doors  he  had 
unlocked  on  first  coming  in,  and,  by  way  of  illustration, 
proceeded  to  lift  out  ledgers  and  day-books  and  to 
carry  them  to  their  respective  desks,  while  the  new 
apprentice  trotted  behind  him  like  an  eager  and  well- 
intentioned  dog. 

Mr.  Jackson  came  in,  and  wished  Richard  good- 
morning  quite  as  if  they  had  been  old  friends.  Almost 
immediately  afterwards  the  two  other  apprentices 
arrived,  one  a  heavy  youth  with  straw-coloured  hair  and 
pimples,  the  other  a  white-faced,  knowing-looking  boy, 
about  a  year  older  than  Richard.  Mr.  Hamilton,  whom 
they  familiarly  called  Davy,  introduced  them  as  Arthur 
Gregg  and  Sydney  Douglas.  Further  members  of  the 
firm  drifted  in,  Mr.  Jackson's  assistant,  the  dispatch- 
clerk,  the  town-traveller,  the  tea-buyer.  To  each  in  turn 
he  was  introduced. 

"  The  country  travellers  are  all  out  on  their  journeys," 
Sydney  Douglas,  who  had  taken  him  in  charge, 
explained.  "  As  a  rule  they  don't  come  in  till  Friday 
or  Saturday.  I'll  take  you  round  the  boats  now.  You'll 
have  to  go  every  morning  to  see  what  stuff  has  come 
in  for  us ;  then  you'll  have  to  get  Tate's  sugar  prices — 
those  are  the  first  things." 


64     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

And  while  they  were  making  the  round  of  the  steam- 
boat sheds  he  threw  off  with  great  freedom  descriptive 
sketches  of  certain  of  the  persons  Richard  would  now 
be  coming  into  contact  with.  "  There's  Jackson ;  you'll 
be  out  in  his  office  a  good  deal.  He's  mad,  of  course, 
but  decent  enough  if  you  keep  on  the  right  side  of  him. 
I  don't,  and  he'll  hardly  speak  to  me.  He's  a 
vegetarian,  and  all  that.  .  .  .  Been  fined  about  ten 
times  for  not  having  his  children  vaccinated.  You 
never  saw  such  kids  as  they  are — like  something  washed 
up  by  the  sea.  .  .  .     Do  you  play  football  ?" 

The  morning  was  clear  and  cold.  All  along  the 
docks  vessels  were  unloading,  and  a  bright,  thin  sun 
danced  and  glittered  on  the  smooth  water.  Everywhere 
was  movement,  noise,  animation;  but  neither  hurry  nor 
confusion.  To  Richard  it  was  all  quite  different  from 
what  he  had  expected,  much  easier  and  pleasanter. 
His  companion  was  extremely  vivacious,  exchanging 
witticisms  with  the  steamship  clerks.  Richard  had  an 
impression  that  he  was  showing  off. 

When  they  returned  to  the  office  all  was  in  full  swing 
there.  Sydney  took  him  through  the  various  depart- 
ments, dropping  condescending  explanations.  Upstairs, 
in  the  mixing-room,  he  watched  the  men,  under  the 
supervision  of  Arthur  Gregg,  turn  the  tea  over  on  the 
floor  with  spades,  shovel  it  into  chests,  and  tramp  it 
down.  The  air  was  thick  with  dust  that  got  into  his 
eyes  and  up  his  nose,  and  he  was  glad  to  get  out  and 
shut  the  door  behind  him. 

When  he  looked  round  Sydney  had  disappeared. 
All  about  him  were  long  rows  of  chests  and  half-chests 
of  tea,  piled  high  up,  one  on  top  of  the  other,  forming 
a  labyrinth  of  narrow  alleys.     In  an  open  space  by  a 


THE  APPRENTICE  65 

window  he  saw  Socrates  covering  one  of  these  chests 
with  brown  hessian,  while  other  packages,  already 
coated,  stood  by  him  in  tall  stacks.  He  worked  rapidly 
and  neatly,  with  movements  to  which  the  practice  of 
years  had  given  a  mechanical  accuracy.  From  time  to 
time  he  stayed  his  hammer  and  expelled  from  between 
his  lips  a  strong  thin  jet  of  tobacco-juice  and  spittle. 

Richard  drew  near  under  the  encouragement  of  a 
mysterious  rumbling  noise,  apparently  of  friendly 
intention.  "  Stay  quiet  till  you  see  the  mouse  come  out. 
It's  just  gone  in  when  it  heard  you.  Sit  down  an'  make 
yourself  comfortable." 

He  sat  down,  and  watched  his  new  acquaintance 
drive  in  nails  with  swift,  sure  strokes  that  never  needed 
to  be  repeated.  "  Do  you  do  this  all  the  time  ?"  he 
couldn't  help  asking. 

"Yes;  that's  my  job." 

Richard  was  astonished.  He  wondered  what  it 
would  be  like  to  drive  in  tacks  and  cut  strips  of  hessian 
all  day  long  and  every  day,  with  only  the  traffic  in  an 
uninteresting  street  far  below  to  provide  entertainment. 
But  his  thoughts  were  diverted  by  the  sudden  apparition 
of  the  mouse,  who  peered  with  bright  black  eyes  from 
between  two  tea  chests.  It  looked  this  way  and  that, 
lifted  a  tiny  paw,  then  came  closer  and  began  daintily 
to  lick  up  the  tobacco-spittle. 

"  Does  that  every  day,"  Socrates  whispered  hoarsely, 
with  a  sort  of  innocent  gratification.  "  Damned  little 
beast !  Knows  me  as  well  as  his  own  father.  .  .  .  And 
how  do  you  like  the  tea  trade  ?"  he  added 
conversationally. 

"  Very  well,"  Richard  replied. 

"  Have  you  been  in  the  hoist  yet  ?"     He  put  down 

5 


66     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

his  hammer,  and  Richard  followed  him.  "  You  pull 
this  rope,  see,  an'  up  she  goes.  An'  you  pull  that  there, 
an'  down  she  goes.  An'  when  you  want  to  stop  her 
you  pull  it  half-way  just.  Now  we're  goin'  up  to  the 
top  loft.  Now  pull  her,  not  too  hard — that's  right. 
You  see,  she  stops  level." 

They  got  out  to  make  a  tour  of  inspection,  Socrates 
growling  explanations,  mostly  monosyllabic.  Richard 
was  struck  by  a  sympathy,  by  something  that  was 
almost  a  rough  tenderness,  glimmering  through  the 
grunts  and  grumbles  of  his  manner.  It  astonished  and 
touched  him.  They  stood  at  the  open  window  and 
looked  down  at  the  street,  along  which  trams  were 
passing,  carts,  a  thin  but  constant  stream  of  people. 
The  scene  was  gilded  by  the  wintry  sun,  and  somehow 
it  gave  him  the  impression  that  he  was  now  fairly  in 
the  midst  of  active  and  competitive  life,  that  he  was 
a  definite  part  of  the  busy  world  passing  to  and  fro 
below  him. 

They  returned  to  the  hoist. 

"  Pull  that'n  there — you  see,  it  takes  us  down.  I'll 
get  out  here,  an'  you  can  go  on.  It's  easier  than  the 
stairs." 

But  Richard  had  only  descended  as  far  as  the  sugar 
loft  when  a  person  with  creaking  boots  advanced 
quickly  and  stopped  the  hoist.  It  was  the  dispatch- 
clerk.  The  new  apprentice  stepped  out,  covered  with 
blushes.  A  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder.  "  Do  you 
see  those  stairs,  sonny  ?"  the  little  man  inquired  mildly. 
"  There  they  are,  just  behind  you.  Take  a  good  look 
at  them,  so  that  you'll  know  them  again.  Those  were 
made  for  boys  like  you  to  run  up  and  down.  This  is 
supposed  to  be  a  business  establishment,  and  the  hoist 


THE  APPRENTICE  67 

is  intended  for  work,  not  for  little  boys  to  play  with. 
We've  seen  lads  like  you  before  you,  you  know.  Run 
away  on  down  now,  and  ask  Sydney  to  show  you  how 
to  write  your  forward ing-notes." 

In  the  outer  office,  however,  he  was  pounced  upon  by 
Mr.  Jackson,  who  wanted  him  to  copy  a  letter.  He  sat 
down,  pen  in  hand,  while  Mr.  Jackson  fussed  about  him, 
explaining  matters.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  these 
explanations,  he  broke  off"  to  ask  Richard  to  what 
denomination  he  belonged. 

After  he  had  heard  the  boy's  reply  Mr.  Lambert 
Jackson  shook  his  head,  but  did  not  mention  his  reason 
for  doing  so.     He  read  aloud  the  letter. 

"  We  would  like  you  to  send  us  a  cheque  by  return. 
Seeing  that  you  promised  to  let  us  have  one  ten  days 
ago,  and  it  hasn't  yet  reached  us,  we  suppose  you  have 
overlooked  the  matter.  We  regret  not  being  able  to 
forward  your  order,  received  per  our  Mr.  Robinson,  till 
the  last  item,  which  dates  back  nearly  a  year,  is 
remitted  for. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  Wynch  Brothers." 

Richard  copied  this  out  slowly  and  carefully,  and  Mr. 
Lambert  Jackson,  when  it  was  finished,  read  it  over  and 
put  his  initials  to  it.  Meanwhile,  the  most  perplexing 
noises  were  to  be  heard  coming  from  the  room  which 
Sydney  had  described  as  the  tasting-room.  Having 
given  his  letter  to  Mr.  Jackson,  he  peeped  through  the 
door,  and  saw  Sydney  himself  there,  with  the  other 
apprentices.  All  along  the  two  counters  were  little 
papers  of  tea,  and  before  each  paper  was  a  small  pot 
and  a  handleless  cup,  these  latter  standing  on  narrow 


68     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

wooden  trays,  at  present  splashed  and  milk-stained. 
Davy  Hamilton  was  busy  with  a  bundle  of  telegraph- 
forms  and  sale-catalogues.  Arthur  Gregg  and  Sydney 
were  rapidly  and  noisily  tasting  the  contents  of  the  cups, 
turning  the  liquor  about  on  their  tongues  before  spitting 
it  into  the  tall  copper  spittoons  with  great  vigour. 
Nobody  else  was  in  the  room,  and  Richard  was 
emboldened  to  enter.  He  stood  quietly  looking  on  till 
Sydney,  taking  a  particularly  large  mouthful,  deliber- 
ately missed  the  spittoon  and  splashed  it  over  the  new 
apprentice's  boots  and  the  hems  of  his  trousers.  Next 
moment  the  cold,  milky  contents  of  one  of  the  cups  was 
streaming  down  Sydney's  face.  He  was  furious,  and 
rushed  to  revenge  himself,  but  Davy  Hamilton 
intervened.     "  Serves  you  jolly  well  right." 

"  I'll  break  his  mouth  for  him,"  Sydney  spluttered, 
struggling  to  free  himself  from  Davy's  clutches,  while 
tea  trickled  down  his  face  and  down  his  neck. 

"  Let  him  try."  Richard  stood  waiting,  with  his 
hands  slightly  lifted. 

Arthur  Gregg's  dull  face  brightened  up  amazingly  at 
the  prospect  of  a  row. 

"We'll  let  you  both  try,"  said  Davy  Hamilton, 
dispassionately.  "  Arthur's  got  his  gloves  here,  and  you 
can  have  a  scrap  after  dinner  up  in  the  top  loft.  What 
time  will  you  be  back  ?" 

"  A  quarter-past  two."  He  frowned  at  Sydney.  "  I 
have  to  do  some  forwarding-notes.  You're  to  show 
me." 

"  I've  done  them  for  you,  you  sulky  little  devil. 
Wait  till  I  get  you  upstairs." 

Davy  Hamilton  left  the  office,  pushing  Sydney  before 
him.     "  Don't  go  out  till  I  give  you  these  wires,"  he 


THE  APPRENTICE  69 

called  back  to  Richard  over  his  shoulder,  waving  the 
bunch  of  telegraph-forms  and  catalogues.  "  And  don't 
start  anything  after  dinner  till  Arthur  and  I  come." 

When  he  arrived  home  Grace  and  his  mother  were 
standing  out  in  the  porch  looking  for  him. 

"  Dinner  not  ready  yet  ?"  he  asked,  in  the  important 
tones  of  a  man  addressing  his  women-folk. 

"  Oh  yes,  it's  ready,"  Mrs.  Seawright  answered 
dryly,  and  Grace  laughed  with  a  tinge  of  mockery. 

When  they  sat  down  the  girl  plied  him  with 
questions.  "  Tell  us  everything  that  happened,"  she 
said  eagerly. 

"  Nothing  happened ;  there's  nothing  to  tell." 

He  ate  rapidly,  casting  frequent  glances  at  the 
clock. 

"  Did  you  get  on  all  right  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  sort  of  work  have  you  to  do  ?" 

"  Oh— different  things." 

"  Are  there  many  other  boys  there  ?" 

"  No." 

"  How  many  ?" 

"  It  depends  on  what  you  call  boys.  There  are  three 
apprentices  and  a  message  boy." 

"  What  are  their  names  ?" 

"  You  wouldn't  know  them." 

"  Don't  ask  him  any  more  questions,"  interrupted  the 
mother  impatiently.  "  It's  like  drawing  a  tooth  to  get 
a  word  from  him.  What  did  Mr.  Wynch  say  about  my 
letter  ?" 

"  He  said  it  would  be  all  right." 

"  About  your  pay  ?" 


70     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Didn't  you  ask  him  ?" 

"  No.  .  .  .     He  said  it  would  be  all  right." 

On  his  return  he  found  Davy  Hamilton  and  Arthur 
Gregg  waiting,  but  there  was  no  Sydney.  Save  for  the 
men,  and  for  Mr.  Wynch,  who  was  always  in  his  private 
office,  the  apprentices  had  the  place  entirely  to  them- 
selves. It  was  the  slackest  hour  of  the  day.  Still 
Sydney  did  not  come.  Davy  Hamilton  pounced  upon 
the  message  boy,  who  was  slipping  quietly  out  upon 
some  affair  of  his  own.  "  Here !  Where  are  you 
going  ?  You've  got  to  watch  the  office  and  blow  up  the 
tube  if  anyone  comes  in." 

The  message  boy  returned  reluctantly,  muttering 
under  his  breath,  and  at  that  moment  Sydney,  smoking 
a  cigarette,  swaggered  in  by  the  yard. 

He  changed  his  coat  and  stepped  into  the  hoist 
after  the  other  three,  indifferent  to  Davy  Hamilton's 
reproaches.  When  they  reached  the  top  loft  they  were 
greeted  with  a  round  of  subdued  and  humorous 
applause  by  the  men,  who  had  evidently  been  informed 
of  what  was  going  to  take  place. 

"  Heavens,  but  he'll  be  sorry  before  I've  finished  with 
him  !"  said  Sydney,  with  mock  ferocity.  He  had  quite 
recovered  his  good  temper,  and  appeared  to  treat  the 
matter  as  a  joke. 

Richard  did  not  understand  him.  For  himself  a 
fight  always  was  a  fight,  and  he  took  off  his  coat  now 
as  if  he  had  been  in  the  stables  under  Jimmy's  watchful 
and  fostering  eye,  silent  and  determined.  Davy 
Hamilton  handed  him  a  pair  of  boxing-gloves,  while 
Arthur  Gregg  looked  after  Sydney.     The  men  formed 


THE  APPRENTICE  71 

a  wide,  grinning  circle,  and  in  an  atmosphere  of  jocosity 
bets  were  offered  and  taken. 

They  began  to  spar.  Sydney  was  agile  and  quick, 
and  attacked  futilely,  with  a  great  deal  of  feinting  and 
hopping  about.  Richard  stood  still,  his  dark  eyes  fixed 
on  his  adversary.  Then,  as  he  took  Sydney's  measure, 
he  adopted  a  slight  crouch,  and  began  to  circle  slowly 
round  him,  with  the  lithe,  padded  grace  of  a  young 
leopard.  There  was  something  horribly  professional 
about  his  whole  style  and  appearance,  and  the  effect  was 
astonishing.  In  a  flash  Sydney  had  pulled  off  his 
gloves,  flung  them  into  Richard's  face,  and  made  a  dive 
through  the  ring  of  spectators  for  the  stairs. 

"  I  won't,"  he  cried  comically,  as  Arthur  Gregg, 
showing  unexpected  alertness,  caught  him  and  dragged 
him  back.     "  I  know  he's  going  to  get  waxy." 

"  Come  on ;  you've  got  to,"  said  Arthur,  briefly. 

"  I  won't.  If  you  saw  the  way  he  looked  at  me.  He's 
a  bloomin'  '  pro/  anyway ;  I'll  swear  he's  been  trained." 

"  Three  cheers  for  Mr.  Seawright,"  an  ugly  little  man, 
who  was  always  laughing,  called  out.  "  Mr.  Douglas 
has  renagued.     That's  a  tanner  you  owe  me,  Bob." 


II 

Richard  dropped  very  quickly  into  the  ways  of  his 
new  life.  Wynch's  was  an  old-fashioned  place, 
characterized  by  a  distinctly  homely  atmosphere.  The 
apprentices  were  called  by  their  Christian  names,  and 
if  they  wanted  an  hour  or  a  day  off,  it  was  never 
refused.  On  the  whole,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  did 
not  work  nearly  so  hard  as  when  he  had  been  at  school. 
It  was  really  only  on  Saturdays,  when  the  travellers 
came  in  to  get  their  samples  made  up,  that  the  quiet 
humdrum  air  gave  way  to  one  of  noise  and  bustle. 

In  his  relations  to  the  other  boys  things  were  much 
the  same  as  they  had  been  in  his  relations  to  the  boys 
at  school.  He  got  on  well  enough  with  them,  but  it 
ended  there.  Outside  the  office  he  never  saw  them. 
They  appeared  to  take  it  for  granted  that  his  friends 
would  not  be  their  friends,  and  he  himself  made  no 
advances.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  a  favourite  both 
with  Mr.  Wynch  and  with  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson.  He 
was  reliable  and  methodical;  he  had  a  sense  of 
responsibility  which  scatter-brained  youths  like  Sydney 
were  entirely  wanting  in ;  a  kind  of  doggedness  which 
overlaid,  like  a  thin  soil,  a  smouldering  fire  of  restless 
passions  whose  existence  nobody  suspected. 

He  was  a  good  deal  in  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson's  office, 
where  he  did  all  kinds  of  little  jobs  that  Sydney  before 
him   had    invariably    shirked.     Mr.    Lambert    Jackson, 

7? 


THE  APPRENTICE  73 

cadaverous  and  slightly  ghastly,  moving  quickly  on 
long  spider  legs,  with  gigantic  strides  that  set  the  seals 
on  his  watch-chain  dancing,  took  him,  as  it  were,  under 
a  very  bony  wing.  It  was  always  Richard  to  whom  he 
entrusted  any  private  commission,  such  as  the  buying 
of  his  monthly  magazines — journals  dealing  for  the 
most  part  with  "  new  thought "  and  giving  coloured 
pictures  of  people's  auras.  It  was  to  Richard  that  from 
time  to  time  he  pointed  out  a  letter  in  one  of  the  local 
newspapers  signed  by  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Hermes." 
Of  course,  everybody  in  the  office  knew  who  "  Hermes  " 
was,  but  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson,  always  sublimely 
unaware  of  what  other  people  knew,  imagined  that  he 
was  bestowing  upon  Richard  a  remarkable  proof  of  his 
confidence  and  esteem.  He  gave  him  the  little  book 
he  had  written  on  Swedenborg,  and  sometimes,  since 
they  lived  in  the  same  quarter  of  the  town,  they  walked 
part  of  the  way  home  together. 

It  was  a  one-sided  friendship,  for  Richard  hated  these 
walks,  which  caused  the  other  apprentices  to  accuse  him 
of  "  soaping."  He  knew  that  they  knew  that  he  didn't 
"  soap,"  but  the  hollow  accusation  was  sufficiently 
disagreeable  to  make  him  fight  shy  of  Mr.  Jackson's 
favours.  Moreover,  his  respect  for  the  bookkeeper  had 
suffered  a  permanent  eclipse  on  the  morning  when  he 
had  come  to  tell  him  that  a  certain  Mr.  Simpson  wanted 
to  speak  to  him  through  the  telephone,  and  had  watched 
Mr.  Lambert  Jackson  retire  to  the  yard  in  order  that 
he,  Richard,  might  be  able  to  reply  "  truthfully  "  that 
he  was  not  in.  The  only  thing,  indeed,  that  the  book- 
keeper and  his  protege  had  in  common  was  this 
eagerness  in  the  pursuit  of  "  truth."  The  Swedenborgian 
— more  fortunate  than  the  protege — had  tracked  her  to 


74     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

her  lair  a  thousand  times.  She  altered,  showed  many 
faces,  but  she  was  always  there,  inspiring  the  utmost 
confidence.  No  theory  could  be  too  wild  to  shelter  her ; 
it  might  have  seemed  that  few  could  be  wild  enough. 
Thus  it  came  about  that  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson  was 
extremely  happy,  and  extremely  anxious  to  share  his 
discoveries  with  his  "  young  friend." 

One  summer  evening,  coming  home  a  little  after  five 
o'clock,  the  "  young  friend  "  found  Mr.  Escott  sitting  in 
the  kitchen. 

"  I  think  one  is  enough,"  the  curate  was  saying, 
evidently  in  reference  to  something  that  had  gone 
before.  What  that  something  was,  Richard  guessed 
when  Mr.  Escott  added,  with  his  bright,  yet  half 
melancholy  smile,  "  Ricky  had  better  take  the  afternoon 
class." 

They  must  be  talking  about  Martin,  about  his 
teaching  in  Sunday-school,  and  he  looked  from  one  to 
the  other. 

"  But  if  he  wants  to  have  the  two,"  Mrs.  Seawright 
persisted. 

"  In  a  year,  even  in  six  months  from  now,  I'll  have 
no  objection." 

"  I  don't  want  to  teach,"  Richard  declared. 

"  No  ?  Well,  good-bye,  Mrs.  Seawright.  ...  A 
word  with  you  apart,"  and  he  caught  Richard  by  the 
arm. 

They  went  out  together,  and  walked  as  far  as  Mr. 
Escott's  door,  where  they  stood  for  a  few  minutes. 
"  Why  do  I  never  see  you  now  ?"  the  curate  suddenly 
asked.     "  Are  you  still  writing  poetry  ?" 

Richard  shook  his  head. 


THE  APPRENTICE  75 

"  I  hope  that  pompous  idiot's  letter  didn't  discourage 
you." 

"  No ;  his  letter  was  all  right." 

Mr.  Escott  noticed  a  gratuitous  roughness  in  the  boy's 
manner,  and  regretted  it.  He  hoped  that  business,  and 
the  dawn  of  adolescence,  were  not  going  to  spoil  him. 
He  paused  and  sighed. 

"  By  the  way,  I  don't  really  care  a  fig  about  your 
coming  or  not  coming  to  my  class — though  I  talked 
about  it  to  your  mother." 

Richard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I'll  talk  again  and  tell  her  that  I  don't  want 
you." 

"  I'll  come  if  you  like." 

"  No;  I'd  much  rather  that  you  just  dropped  in  now 
and  then  to  see  me  in  my  own  house — but  not  as  a 
matter  of  duty.  I  never  seem  to  see  anyone  now  except 
in  an  official  capacity.  It's  a  little  appalling.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  won't  keep  you.     Good-bye." 

Richard  thought  his  manner  peculiar.  He  was  much 
given  to  the  consideration  of  "manners,"  and  to 
wondering  what  people  meant,  when  obviously  they 
meant  exactly  what  they  said.  The  most  innocent 
remark  was  at  times  capable  of  arousing  in  him  agoniz- 
ing searchings  of  conscience,  the  results  of  which  were 
usually  pessimistic,  and  very  nearly  always  fallacious. 

He  found  Grace  alone  in  the  shop  when  he  came  back. 
"  What  was  Mr.  Escott  talking  about  to  mother  ?"  he 
asked  her. 

"  About  Martin  chiefly.  She  was  telling  him  that  he 
wanted  to  teach  in  both  morning  and  afternoon  Sunday- 
school,  and  Mr.  Escott  thought  that  one  was  enough — 
to  begin  with." 


76     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Doesn't  he  believe  he's  really  converted  ?" 

Grace  smiled  with  that  faint  smile  he  could  never 
quite  interpret.  "  He  could  hardly  say  so,  could  he,  no 
matter  what  he  believed  ?  You  expect  everybody  to 
talk  exactly  in  the  way  you  do,  Ricky  dear." 

"  As  a  rule  you  can  pick  up  things  without  their  being 
*  said  '  so  plainly." 

"  Well,  of  course  Martin  is  changed.  .  .  .  Anybody 
can  see  that." 

"  They  can.     It's  like  the  oil  he  sticks  on  his  hair." 

She  regarded  him  pensively.  "  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
ought  to  listen  to  you." 

"  Do  you  know  why  he  was  converted  ?" 

"  I    suppose    because Well,    why    is    anybody 

converted  ?" 

"  I'm  not  talking  about  anybody.  I'm  talking  about 
Martin.  It  was  funk — pure  funk.  He's  been  in  a  funk 
ever  since  his  accident.  Of  course,  once  he  went  to  the 
Mission,  the  rest  was  a  foregone  conclusion.  He's  no 
will  of  his  own.     Anyone  could  convert  him." 

"  You  mustn't  talk  like  that  before  mother.  She  is 
very  pleased  about  it.  .  .  .  Besides,  you  don't  under- 
stand." 

He  laughed  ironically.  "  It's  the  last  bright  jewel  in 
his  crown,  isn't  it  ?  The  one  thing  that  was  wanted  to 
make  him  perfect." 

Grace  sighed.  "  I  wish  you  were  a  little  more  like 
him." 

"  You  don't,"  he  answered  fiercely.  "  That's  a  lie. 
You  don't  want  me  to  be  like  Martin." 

"  Don't  I  ?" 

"  You  don't  even  want  me  to  be  different  from  what 
I  am." 


THE  APPRENTICE  77 

"You're  very  conceited,  I  think — and  then,  you're 
so  rude  !" 

"I'm  not  conceited.  What  I  say  is  the  truth.  / 
may  want  to  be  different,  but  you — you  don't  care  a 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  provocation.  "  What 
made  you  come  home  Hke  this  ?" 

He  caught  her  by  the  shoulders.  His  dark  eyes 
blazed  into  hers.  ''Do  you  care  ?  Not  for  that.  You 
want  to  make  a  fool  of  me.  I  don't  know  what  you 
care  for,  but  it's  nothing  good." 

"  Ricky  !     Sometimes  you  make  me  think Well, 

I'll  not  say  what."     She  smiled  ambiguously. 

"  You  would  if  you  weren't  a  coward.  You  never 
say  anything,  but  you  make  me  say  things.  You've  got 
a  sort  of  devil  in  you  really,  and  it's  because  you  think 
I've  got  one  too  that  you  let  me  see  it.  I  don't  under- 
stand you.  You  liked  me  to  catch  hold  of  you  that  way 
by  the  shoulders.  Sometimes  I  think  you'd  almost  like 
me  to  hurt  you.     You're  very  strange,  Grace." 

"  If  you  did  hurt  me,  would  you  be  sorry  after- 
wards ?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  wheedled,  with  a  kind  of  feline 
cajolery. 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  And  would  you  be  very  good  to  me — kind  and 
gentle  and  loving  ?" 

He  grunted  disgustedly,  and  she  laughed  again, 
softly  in  her  throat.  Her  green  eyes  half-closed,  and 
her  beautiful  voice  had  a  lulling  sound,  like  the  voice 
of  a  spirit  that  draws  a  child  away  from  its  playmates^ 
to  the  woods  and  the  waters. 


78     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

He  had  no  time  to  reply  before  the  shop  door  swung 
open  to  admit  Martin,  who  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at 
them  as  he  walked  straight  on  into  the  kitchen.  To 
Richard  the  glance  seemed  odious,  and  he  drew  back 
quickly,  pushing  Grace  roughly  from  him,  as  if  some- 
thing had  stung  him. 


Ill 

He  locked  the  shop  door  and  pulled  down  the  blinds ; 
then  followed  Martin  and  Grace  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Where's  mother  ?"  he  asked. 

Grace  had  begun  to  lay  the  cloth  for  tea,  while  the 
two  brothers  sat,  one  on  either  side  of  the  hearth,  Martin 
with  the  evening  paper  held  up  before  him. 

"  She's  upstairs,  I  suppose.  You're  both  earlier  than 
usual  to-night.  .  .  .  Mr.  Escott  was  here."  She 
dropped  this  last  remark  casually,  as  she  passed  behind 
Martin's  chair. 

He  looked  up.     "  Did  he  leave  any  message  for  me  ?" 

"  I  think  so.  Mother  will  know."  Then  she  added 
carelessly,  while  she  poured  hot  water  into  the  teapot, 
"  He  wants  Ricky  to  take  one  of  your  classes." 

"  He  could  hardly  do  that,  seeing  that  he  doesn't 
even  come  to  church,"  Martin  murmured,  colouring  a 
little,  for  he  blushed  very  easily.  Then  he  coloured  more 
deeply,  seeming  to  detect  a  shade  of  irony  in  Grace's 
words. 

"  You  needn't  be  alarmed ;  I've  no  wish  to  take  it, 
and  he  didn't  want  me  to,"  Richard  assured  him.  At 
the  same  time  he  glanced  at  Grace.  He  failed  to  under- 
stand why  she  should  have  repeated  what  she  knew 
very  well  only  to  have  been  a  joke. 

Martin  appeared  to  think  that  they  had  both  com- 
bined to  ridicule  him.  "  I  was  talking  to  a  chap  this 
afternoon,"  he  said,  "  — one  of  the  wildest  fellows  about 

79 


8o     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

— a  man  of  nearly  thirty.  He  said  that  no  matter  what 
else  he  might  have  done,  he  had  always  gone  to  church 
to  please  his  mother."  As  he  finished  speaking  he 
looked  at  Grace  with  his  soft,  appealing  smile. 

"  Perhaps  if  he  hadn't  done  some  of  the  other  things 
it  might  have  pleased  her  even  more,"  Richard 
suggested. 

He  watched  his  brother  as  he  sat  there,  watched  the 
bright,  handsome,  rather  delicate  face,  whose  weakness 
always  seemed  to  him  a  greater  defect  than  any  ugliness 
of  feature  could  have  been.  He  detested  it,  that 
inherent  weakness,  and  it  had  never  been  more  apparent 
to  him  than  at  this  moment.  It  was  so  like  him  to 
think  that  a  remark  about  church-going  must  gain 
tremendous  weight  by  having  been  made  by  a  black- 
guard !  So  like  him  to  try  to  get  the  third  person,  or 
whatever  audience  there  was,  upon  his  side !  The 
point  of  view,  the  appealing,  conscious  smile,  the  implied 
reproof,  the  glance  he  had  given  Grace  and  himself  a 
few  minutes  earlier  in  the  shop,  all  combined,  in  his 
present  mood,  to  exasperate  him,  and  an  angry  light 
came  into  his  eyes.  "  You  pretend  to  be  religious  and 
converted,  yet  you  go  out  with  Charlie  McGlade  on 
Saturdays  to  shoot  birds.  ...  I  saw  you  shoot  a 
thrush  the  other  day  myself.  You  only  broke  its  wing, 
and  it  dropped  in  the  river,  and  you  didn't  care.  .  .  . 
You  shoot  all  kinds  of  birds.  Charlie  told  me  so  him- 
self, although  he  draws  the  line  at  some.  You  shoot 
blackbirds  and  sparrows  and  robins  and  thrushes  and 
seagulls — it  doesn't  matter  what  they  are,  so  long  as 
they  are  alive  and  can  be  hurt.  I'd  rather  go  and  drown 
myself  than  do  dirty  things  like  that.  But  you  were 
always  that  sort.  ...     If  ever  I  come  across  you  doing 


THE  APPRENTICE  8i 

it  again  Til  hammer  the  head  off  you,  no  matter  where 
you  are  or  who  you're  with.  Yes,  and  I  could  do  it  too ; 
you  needn't  laugh,  for  you  know  it." 

Martin  continued  to  laugh.  "  Oh,  you're  mad ;  there's 
no  use  talking  to  you." 

"  I'm  not  mad." 

"  It  comes  of  always  mooning  about  by  yourself," 
Martin  continued  maliciously.  "Why  don't  you  go 
with  other  chaps  a  bit  ?  You  never  seem  to  have  any 
friends." 

"  I  don't  want  any  if  they're  like  yours  or  hke  you— 
a  lot  of  damned  fools." 

"Ricky!"  Grace  cried,  catching  hold  of  him,  for  he 
had  risen  to  his  feet,  with  clenched  fists. 

It  was  this  scene  that  met  Mrs.  Seawright's  eyes  as, 
attracted  by  the  noise,  she  entered  the  kitchen. 

"  What  is  all  this  quarrelhng  ?"  she  asked  sternly. 
"  Richard,  how  dare  you  use  such  language !" 

"  I  didn't  use  half  enough,"  he  choked. 

"What's  the  matter,  Martin?"  She  turned  to  her 
elder  son,  who  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Who  can  ever  tell  what's  the 
matter  with  him  ?  Anyway,  it's  not  worth  talking 
about."  He  got  up  and  went  into  the  back-kitchen, 
where  he  could  be  heard  washing  his  hands  in  the  sink. 

"  It'll  soon  be  impossible  to  speak  to  you,"  Mrs. 
Seawright  went  on  to  Richard.  "  You  seem  to  be  losing 
all  control  over  your  temper.  I  don't  know  what  you're 
coming  to." 

He  answered  nothing,  and  presently,  when  Martin 
rejoined  them,  they  sat  down  to  tea. 

Every  dispute  seemed  to  end  thus,  by  throwing  into 
vivid   relief   Martin's   advantages   of   temper.     He   too 

6 


82     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

could  have  been  good-tempered,  he  thought  bitterly,  if 
he  had  been  invariably  backed  up  by  his  mother. 

When  tea  was  over  and  Martin  had  gone  out,  he  went 
upstairs  to  his  bedroom.  Grace  lingered  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then,  when  Mrs.  Seawright  was  not 
looking,  slipped  noiselessly  from  the  kitchen.  She 
glided  upstairs  like  a  ghost,  and  when  she  reached 
Richard's  door  turned  the  handle  very  gently,  but  the 
door  was  locked.  She  tapped  softly.  "  Ricky — Ricky," 
she  whispered. 

There  was  no  answer,  and  at  that  moment  Mrs. 
Seawright's  voice,  clear  and  unruffled,  came  up  to  her. 
"  Grace  !"  she  called. 

The  girl  stood  hesitating,  but  made  no  reply. 

Again  Mrs.  Seawright  called :  "  Grace ;  are  you. 
there  ?" 

She  still  gave  no  answer,  but  tapped  once  more  at  the 
door,  which  this  time  was  opened  by  Richard. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  he  asked  gruffly.  "  Mother's 
calling  you." 

"  I'll  go  down  m  a  minute.  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
first." 

She  slipped  in  through  the  door  that  he  held, 
grudgingly,  barely  wide  enough  to  admit  her. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said.     "  It  was  all  my  fault." 

"  How  was  it  your  fault  ?" 

"  I  knew  you  were — cross,  and  I  spoke  that  way  to 
Martin  just  to  tease  you." 

"  Don't  you  think  there  are  rows  enough  without 
trying  to  manufacture  them  ?"  he  asked  sulkily, 

"  I'm  sorry.  .  .  ."  She  was  very  penitent  as  she  stood 
there  near  the  door,  gazing  at  him  meekly.  He  sat,  in 
his  shirt  and  trousers,  on  the  side  of  his  bed. 


THE  APPRENTICE  83 

"  What  IS  the  matter,  Ricky  dear  ?  1  am  sure  some- 
thing is  the  matter." 

"  Why  don't  you  say  at  once  that  IVe  a  beastly 
temper?     That's  what  the  matter  is." 

"  I  know  your  temper  isn't  very  good."  (He  smiled 
sardonically.)  "  But  I  know  too  that  there  is  something 
worrying  you.     Why  won't  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell,"  he  growled  ungraciously. 

"  Well,  I  must  go  down.  You're  not  going  to  sit  up 
here  all  evening  by  yourself,  are  you?  It'll  look  as  if 
you  were  sulky.  Why  need  you  mind  what  Martin 
said  ?     It  isn't  true,  anyway." 

"  What  isn't  true  ?"  He  flashed  a  glance  of  suspicion 
at  her  and  coloured  hotly. 

"  That  you  have  no  friends,"  said  Grace  softly. 

"  What  do  I  care  whether  I  have  friends  or  not  ?" 

"  Well,  you  will  come  down,  won't  you  ?" 

She  was  gone  as  quickly  as  she  had  entered,  leaving 
him  to  stare  at  the  door  she  softly  closed  behind  her. 
Her  subtlety  displeased  him.  He  did  not  want  people 
to  know  when  he  was  hurt,  or  why  he  was  hurt,  and 
Grace  invariably  knew.  She  seemed  to  know  every- 
thing, and  he  resented  the  facility  with  which  she  read 
his  thoughts.  He  went  downstairs,  however,  and  all 
trace  of  his  squabble  with  Martin  seemed  to  be 
forgotten. 

Yet  it  was  not  so.  For  some  unknown  reason  the 
incident,  not  very  different  from  countless  others, 
remained  in  his  mind.  All  the  time  Martin  had  been 
away  from  home  there  had  been  no  rows^  Then,  with 
his  return,  everything  had  dropped  back  at  once  into 
the  old  rut.     What  was  the  use  of  his  making  good 


84     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

resolutions  when  he  could  not  keep  them?  It  was  all 
very  well  for  Grace  to  look  quietly  on  at  the  idolization 
of  his  brother,  but  he  could  not.  He  knew  he  had  been 
in  the  wrong  on  this  particular  occasion,  and  yet  what 
rankled  was  the  fact  that  his  mother  had  sided  so 
definitely  against  him.  It  was  always  Martin  who  set 
her  against  him.  She  had  not  been  like  that,  he  was 
sure,  when  Martin  was  not  there.  The  mere  fact  of  his 
presence  seemed  to  make  her  indifferent  to  everybody 
else.  The  very  tone  of  her  voice  altered,  grew  softer, 
when  she  spoke  to  him.  .  .  . 

These  thoughts  moved  in  him  like  the  germ  of  an 
insidious  disease,  that  develops  slowly,  but  inevitably. 
The  first  outward  symptom  was  the  fact  that  he  gave 
up  his  place,  or,  rather,  accepted  the  only  place  in  Mrs. 
Sea  Wright's  affection  which  she  appeared  able  to  give 
him.  He  did  not  think  it  a  very  high  one,  but  he 
ceased  to  express  dissatisfaction  with  it.  In  the  past 
he  had  clamoured  too  long  and  too  loudly. 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  his  eighteenth  birthday 
this  unfortunate  habit  of  mind  had  become  definitely 
fixed.  A  second,  or  under-,  life  seemed  to  have 
detached  itself  almost  completely  from  the  stolid 
painstaking  existence  which  he  led  outwardly,  and 
which  had  made  his  progress  down  at  the  office  so 
satisfactory.  He  began  to  read  books  about  the  origins 
of  things — man,  society,  religion.  It  was  as  if  he  were 
pursuing  something  in  the  darkness,  following  through 
the  darkness  some  fata  morgana.  Her  seriousness, 
always  rather  embarrassing,  had  if  anything  increased, 
and  Grace,  who  was  growing  up  with  him,  felt  her 
brain  at  times  positively  reel  under  the  strain  of  it,  so 
that  she  was  obliged  to  seek  refuge  in  a  levity  which 


THE  APPRENTICE  85 

aroused  his  indignation.  She  knew  he  was  taking  life 
in  a  way  that  it  was  never  meant  to  be  taken,  and  she 
watched  his  development  with  a  sort  of  protective 
sympathetic  impatience,  wishing  that  she  could  endow 
him  with  a  little  of  her  own  philosophy,  and  ironically 
aware  that  he  believed  her  to  be  incapable  of  under- 
standing, or  sympathizing  with,  those  profound  specula- 
tions upon  which  he  was  engaged,  and  which  appeared 
to  bring  him  so  little  satisfaction. 


IV 

On  the  morning  of  the  twelfth  of  July — a  Saturday 
morning — the  Seawright  family  breakfasted  earlier  than 
usual,  and  it  was  barely  eight  o'clock  when  Mrs. 
Seawright  and  Grace  began  to  clear  the  table.  The 
skirts  of  their  Sunday  dresses  were  pinned  up,  and  the 
greater  part  of  their  persons  covered  with  large  aprons. 
Martin  hovered  about  the  kitchen  in  his  shirt  sleeves. 
His  best  jacket  hung  over  the  back  of  a  chair,  where 
he  had  placed  it  prior  to  giving  an  extra  polish  to  his 
new  brown  boots.  Every  now  and  again  he  wandered 
as  far  as  the  front  door,  through  which,  when  he 
opened  it,  a  faint  rumble  of  distant  drums  became 
audible.  Richard  alone  was  not  in  Sunday  attire.  His 
mother  had  noticed  the  omission,  but  without  surprise. 
She  was  only  surprised  that  he  had  not  raked  out  still 
older  things  to  put  on,  having  come  to  regard  it  as 
certain  that  in  any  given  case  he  would  act  in  direct 
opposition  to  the  rest  of  the  family. 

For  a  time  the  noise  of  rattling  cups  and  plates 
predominated,  broken  by  detached  phrases  such  as : 
"  Best  cover  up  that  milk,"  or,  "  There's  enough  bread, 
I  suppose,  to  do  till  Monday."  Then  Martin,  who  had 
again  been  to  the  door,  called  out,  "  They're  coming ! " 
and  catching  up  his  jacket,  hastily  put  it  on. 

"  Who  ?     The  Or'ngemen  ?"  Mrs.  Seawright  gasped. 

"  No ;  the  McGlades.  I  suppose  I'd  better  ask  them 
in?" 

86 


THE  APPRENTICE  87 

"  Well,  of  course.  We  can  hardly  keep  them  standing 
out  in  the  street.  I'm  sure  they're  early  enough !  The 
train  doesn't  go  till  half-past  nine."  She  was  not 
particularly  pleased. 

"  Go  and  put  on  your  bonnet,  mother.  I'll  finish  the 
drying,"  said  Grace. 

At  the  sound  of  voices  and  laughter  outside  Mrs. 
Seawright  snatched  off  her  apron  and  let  down  the  skirt 
of  her  dress,  while  Martin  ushered  in  the  guests.  The 
little  kitchen  seemed  suddenly  to  overflow  with 
McGlades,  and  everyone  shook  hands  with  everybody 
else.     "Well,  Efae!"     "  Well,  Charlie  ! " 

Mrs.  McGlade,  a  tall,  thin,  dry  woman,  in  an 
elaborately  trimmed  mantle,  took  in,  with  a  single 
quick  glance,  the  signs  of  disturbed  activities.  "  We're 
just  on  the  early  side  for  you,  Mrs.  Seawright,  I'm 
afraid.  Don't  be  hurrying;  there's  no  need."  She 
spoke  with  a  mincing,  genteel  accent  that  was  apt  to 
disappear  in  moments  of  forgetfulness.  Her  husband, 
a  successful  butcher,  rotund  and  good-natured.,  pro- 
ceeded to  wipe  his  forehead  with  a  red  silk  handker- 
chief. ^'^ 

"  Well,  if  you're  as  hot  as  that  already,  I  don't  kngw 
what  you  will  be  !"  his  wife  commented.  ^ 

Effie  was  giggling  in  the  corner  with  Martin.  The 
whole  family  had  a  prosperous  appearance.  Charlie, 
radiant  in  a  very  low-cut  waistcoat,  and  with  a  rose  in 
his  buttonhole,  was  as  brightly  and  cheerfully  vulgar 
as  a  picture  postcard.  Both  he  and  his  sister  had 
inherited  from  their  father  that  highly-coloured,  full- 
blooded  appearance  which  seems  to  characterize  those 
who  absorb  daily  for  many  hours  the  odour  of  animal 
juices.     Poor  Grace,  compared  with  the  splendid  and 


88     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

bouncing  Effie,  looked  more  meagre  and   pallid  than 
usual. 

"  We'll  miss  the  procession,"  Effie  regretted  ;  "  an'  they 
say  it's  to  be  bigger  than  ever  this  year." 

"Where's  your  or'nge  lily,  Grace?"  asked  Charlie, 
playfully. 

"  Well,  they're  gettin'  a  grand  day,  any  way !" 

But  Mrs.  Seawright  took  a  less  cheerful  view.  "  It'll 
be  too  grand  for  some  of  them,  I  doubt.  A  grand  day 
for  the  public-houses,  with  that  heat !" 

"  I  seen  two  fellas  a  bit  on  already,"  said  Charlie,  with 
his  pleasant  smile.  "  You  wouldn't  believe  !  You  know 
that  big  fat  lad  they  call  *  Delicate  Dick,'  that  used  to 
work  in  Jamison's — him  an'  another,  in  front  of 
Wilberforce's,  shoutin' '  Go  on  the  Blues  ! '  and  cursin'  the 
Pope — somethin*  cruel.  Mr.  Wilberforce,  he  came  out 
an'  give  them  all  sorts,  but  they  wouldn't  move  on  till 
three  peelers  come." 

"  It  would  be  far  better  there  was  no  Twelfth  for 
people  that  can't  behave  right,"  said  his  mother.  "  That 
*  Delicate  Dick  *  was  always  giving  trouble  anyway.  I 
don't  know  why  they  don't  put  him  in  jail." 

"  He'll  be  in  before  night,"  Charlie  assured  her,  with 
light-hearted  cynicism. 

"  Isn't  /le  coming  ?"  asked  Effie,  casting  a  sidelong 
glance  at  Richard. 

"  Yes." 

Mrs.  Seawright  noticed  that  they  all  looked  at  him, 
and  her  irritation  was  revived.  She  felt  that  he  did 
her  discredit.  "  It's  not  that  he  hasn't  got  another  suit," 
she  said ;  "  but  he  won't  put  it  on,  because  he  likes  to 
be  different  from  everybody  else." 

"  I  can  bring  it  down  and  show  it  to  them,"  Richard 


THE  APPRENTICE  89 

suggested.  "  It's  hardly  fair  to  ask  them  to  take  it  on 
trust." 

"There's  many  a  one  gets  them  on  trust,"  laughed 
Charlie.     "  Wait  till  he's  married." 

"Look!  He's  going  to  bring  a  book  with  him!" 
cried  Effie,  who  seemed,  in  addressing  Richard,  to  prefer 
the  indirect  method.  "  He  doesn't  want  the  bother  of 
talking  to  us.     Did  you  ever  see  such  politeness  ?" 

Richard  had  slipped  the  book  he  had  been  reading 
into  his  pocket.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  faint  smile. 
Martin  and  Charlie  exchanged  cigarettes  out  of  silver 
cases.  Both  wore  rings,  the  main  effect  being  to 
accentuate  the  coarseness  of  their  hands  and  to  render 
more  obvious  the  fact  that  Charlie  bit  his  nails. 

Nevertheless,  in  the  view  of  the  McGlade  ladies,  the 
appearance  presented  by  Richard,  who  wore  only  a 
loose  tennis  shirt  under  his  jacket,  and  a  belt  instead  of 
braces,  detracted  from  that  air  of  gentility  the  party 
would  otherwise  have  achieved,  and  they  resented  it, 
particularly  Effie,  just  as  Mrs.  Seawright  had  known 
they  would.  "  He  wouldn't  take  the  bother  of  dressing 
to  come  out  with  us,"  the  girl  whispered  to  her  mother. 
"  It's  a  wonder  he's  even  put  a  collar  on." 

They  sallied  forth,  Charlie  and  Richard  carrying  the 
baskets,  Mrs.  Seawright  locking  the  front  door  after  her, 
and  putting  the  key  in  her  pocket. 

"  I  hope  there  isn't  an  awful  crush,"  said  Effie, 
glancing  down  at  her  new  costume.  "  That's  the  worst 
of  trains;  you  get  your  things  just  ruined." 

"  See  and  keep  together  at  the  station,"  Mrs.  McGlade 
warned  them.  "  Charlie  '11  look  after  the  tickets  for 
everybody.  There's  no  use  you  gettin'  any  hotter,  da, 
than  you  are  already." 


90     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

The  station  was  crowded  when  they  arrived.  "  Let's 
get  well  up  to  the  front,"  Mrs.  McGlade  directed  them, 
when  Charlie  at  last  emerged  from  his  struggle- at  the 
ticket  office.  She  elbowed  her  way  vigorously,  peering 
into  carriages.  But  empty  seats  were  scarce,  and  those 
who  had  secured  places  did  their  best  to  take  up  as 
much  room  as  possible,  with  that  extraordinary 
selfishness  which  distinguishes  the  most  good-natured 
of  travellers. 

"We'll  have  to  separate,"  Mrs.  Seawright  said 
helplessly,  but  the  McGlades  would  not  hear  of  this,  and 
presently  "  da  "  was  observed  to  be  in  conversation  with 
the  guard. 

"  There's  bribery  and  corruption  goin'  on  there," 
laughed  Charlie.     "  Wait  to  you  see." 

Suddenly  Mr.  McGlade  beckoned  to  them,  and,  as 
they  hurried  up,  the  guard  opened  the  door  of  the  only 
first-class  compartment  on  the  train.  They  flocked  in 
boisterously,  and  the  guard,  slamming  the  door  behind 
them,  turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"  This  is  a  little  bit  of  all  right,"  said  Charlie 
knowingly.  "  It  takes  da  to  work  the  oracle."  And 
amid  much  laughter  baskets  were  stowed  away,  coats 
and  umbrellas  packed  upon  the  racks,  and  glances  and 
smiles  of  the  friendliest  intention  bestowed  upon  the 
two  legitimate  occupants  of  the  carriage,  a  languid  lady 
and  a  man  with  a  moustache  and  golf  clubs,  who  failed, 
however,  to  respond  to  these  overtures. 

When  the  train  had  started  the  party  settled  them- 
selves more  comfortably.  Mr.  McGlade  wiped  his 
forehead  and  unbuttoned  his  waistcoat  with  a  smile 
and  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  two  strangers,  from  their 
corner  seats,  watched  him,  as  if  uncertain  as  to  how  far 


THE  APPRENTICE  91 

this  process  of  disrobing  was  going  to  be  carried.  At 
the  same  time  Charhe  began  to  read  aloud,  with 
humorous  embeUishments,  the  printed  notices  in  front 
of  him  :  "  Thou  shalt  not  spit  in,  on,  or  near  the  thrain ." 
The  lady  closed  her  eyes  with  an  air  of  resignation. 

Charlie  produced  a  bag  of  sweets,  and  these  were 
handed  round.  "  Perhaps  this  lady  would  have  some," 
Mrs.  McGlade  suggested  politely,  when  her  own  party 
had  freely  helped  themselves. 

Charlie  presented  the  bag,  with  a  smile,  but  the  lady 
refused.  She  addressed  a  remark  to  the  somnolent 
golfer  in  a  carefully  colourless  undertone,  which,  never- 
theless, produced  a  certain  chill  in  the  spiritual 
atmosphere. 

The  lady  brought  forth  a  second  remark,  in  the  same 
tone ;  then  she  closed  her  eyes  once  more,  as  if  trying  to 
forget  the  invasion  of  vulgarity.  Probably  she  would 
have  remained  thus  for  the  rest  of  the  journey  had  not 
Charlie,  to  beguile  the  pause  at  a  station,  blown  up  the 
paper  bag  which  had  contained  the  sweets,  and 
exploded  it  with  a  terrific  bang.  The  golfer  opened  his 
eyes;  the  lady  started  violently.  Charlie  apologized 
profusely,  but  without  the  faintest  trace  of  embarrass- 
ment. Effie  was  seized  with  a  giggling  fit,  and 
remarked,  "This  heat's  something  cruel!"  The  golfer 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  laughed,  and  the  lady  froze 
into  yet  deeper  estrangement.  She  retreated  further 
into  her  corner,  exchanged  a  glance  with  her  companion, 
and  wrapped  herself  in  a  protective  atmosphere  of  frigid 
patience,  as  if  now  prepared  for  the  worst.  "  There's 
some  that  when  they  go  on  an  excursion  would  be  better 
hiring  a  special  train,"  remarked  Mrs.  McGlade  acidly. 
The  lady  blushed. 


92     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

At  last  they  reached  their  journey's  end.  Out  on  the 
platform  Richard,  who  had  stepped  aside  to  avoid  the 
first  rush,  got  separated  from  the  others.  Once  he  was 
alone,  he  felt  a  reluctance  to  rejoin  them,  but  they  were 
waiting  for  him  in  a  little  group  in  the  middle  of  the 
street  when  he  came  out  of  the  station. 

"  Where  did  you  get  to  ?"  asked  Effie. 

"  I  wasn't  very  far  away." 

"All  I  know  is  that  my  shirt's  sticking  to  me," 
Charlie  confessed  frankly.  "  I  hope  the  pattern  doesn't 
come  off.     What  about  a  bathe  ?" 

"  Where  will  we  meet  you  then  ?"  his  mother  inquired. 
"  Do  you  want  to  bathe,  da  ?"  she  added  doubtfully. 
"  We  might  all  go  round  the  shore  later  on." 

"Ma,  your  bonnet's  hanging  over  your  ear!"  Effie 
giggled.     "  If  you  only  saw  !" 

"  I'm  sure  it's  no  wonder,  with  people  pushing  and 
shoving  like  the  station  had  caught  fire !" 

Mr.  McGlade,  his  rubicund  countenance  beaded  with 
perspiration,  cast  a  wistful  glance  in  the  direction  of  a 
public-house  at  the  corner.  "  I  think  the  first  thing  I'll 
do  will  be  to  have  a  bottle  of  Bass,"  he  said 
tentatively. 

"  I'm  sure  they  could  all  do  with  a  taste  of  lemonade 
or  something,"  his  wife  agreed.  She  possessed  a  sort  of 
thin  geniality,  and  was  evidently  in  holiday  humour. 
"  If  it  wasn't  a  public-house,"  she  added,  remembering 
Mrs.  Seawright's  views  on  such  subjects. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid.  There'll  be  a  side  door 
and  a  parlour." 

Mrs.  Seawright  said  nothing.  It  would  have  been 
difficult  to  tell  from  either  her  manner  or  appearance 
that  she  was  embarked  upon  a  pleasure  excursion. 


THE  APPRENTICE  93 

"  It's  a  Family  Hotel,  anyway,"  said  Charlie  jocosely, 
as  he  and  Martin  lifted  the  baskets. 

Richard  did  not  move.  "  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  I'm 
not  coming.     I'm  going  to  climb  the  mountain." 

"  Climb  the  mountain !  You  are  looking  for  some- 
thing warm!"  cried  Ef&e  peevishly.  "I  knew  he  was 
up  to  something  when  he  stopped  behind  like  that.  He 
never  intended  to  come  with  us,  I  don't  believe." 
Suddenly  she  recollected  that  she  had  ascended  Snaefell 
last  August,  when  they  were  staying  at  Douglas,  and 
proposed  that  they  should  all  climb  the  mountain. 

Mr.  McGlade  cast  a  glance  at  the  summit  of  Slieve 
Donnard  and  shook  his  head  slowly.  "  You  young 
people  can  go  if  you  like,  but  the  rest  of  us,  I  think,  are 
better  down  below."  He  made  a  movement  towards  the 
Family  Hotel  as  he  spoke,  followed  by  his  wife,  who 
paused,  however,  and  then  returned,  as  she  saw  that 
Mrs.  Seawright  was  not  coming.  Charlie  and  Martin 
set  down  the  baskets. 

"  I'd  like  to  climb  the  mountain,"  Grace  said. 

Richard  glanced  at  her  and  then  at  Effie.  "  I'm 
afraid  you'd  find  it  rather  tiring  on  a  day  like  this." 

"  Much  you  care  whether  we're  tired  or  not,"  retorted 
Effte,  crossly.  "  It's  just  like  you,  starting  off  with  us  and 
then  wanting  to  go  away  by  yourself ! " 

He  did  not  reply. 

"  Well,  there's  nothing  to  hinder  us  all  going,"  said 
Charlie,  good-humouredly. 

"  Nothing,"  Richard  answered. 

He  crossed  to  the  footpath  and  gazed  at  the  faded 
portraits  of  previous  excursionists,  exhibited  in  the 
window  of  a  little  wooden  shed  where  one  could  have 
one's  likeness  taken  if  one  wanted  to.     He  didn't  want 


94     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

to,  though  the  proprietor  of  the  shed,  catching  sight  of 
him,  presently  came  out  to  suggest  this  fascinating  form 
of  relaxation. 

"  Well,  you'd  better  make  up  your  minds  one  way  or 
another,"  said  Mrs.  McGlade.  She  was  annoyed  by  the 
attitude  Mrs.  Seawright  had  adopted  concerning  the 
Family  Hotel,  in  the  door  of  which  her  husband  now 
suddenly  appeared,  waving  to  them  to  come  on.  As 
they  did  not  move,  and  only  Charlie  replied  to  his 
signals,  he  retired  inside  again. 

It  ended  by  their  deciding  that  the  whole  party  might 
go  as  far  as  the  woods  just  under  the  mountain.  Then 
whoever  wanted  to  could  make  the  ascent  after  lunch. 

Mrs.  McGlade  turned  to  her  son.  "  Charlie,  go  and 
tell  da  that  we're  away." 

"  What  about  the  lemonade  ?" 

"  There's  plenty  of  water,"  Richard  said.  "  The 
stream  that  flows  through  the  estate  comes  straight 
down  from  the  mountain." 

"  You  and  da  can  bring  the  lemonade,  can't  you  ?" 
Mrs.  McGlade  replied,  still  addressing  CharHe. 

They  took  up  the  baskets.  The  day  did  not  seem, 
somehow,  to  be  commencing  very  auspiciously.  Mrs. 
McGlade  was  offended.  Effie  was  cross.  Mrs.  Sea- 
wright, disapproving  of  Mr.  McGlade's  conduct,  and 
of  the  example  he  was  setting  the  boys,  was  in  one  of 
her  most  unbending  moods.  Richard  suggested  leaving 
the  umbrellas  and  all  superfluous  clothing  at  the 
station,  as  it  obviously  was  not  going  to  rain,  but  the 
suggestion  was  ignored,  and,  hot  and  heavy-laden,  they 
proceeded  along  the  sea  road  under  a  broiling  sun. 

In  the  woods,  though  there  was  plenty  of  shade,  it 
was  uncomfortably  close,  and  the  flies  hung  in  droning 


THE  APPRENTICE  95 

armies  over  the  bracken  where  they  at  last  set  down 
the  baskets  and  the  lemonade  botdes.  It  was  then,  as  they 
were  beginning  lunch,  that  Mr.  McGlade,  diving  his 
hand  into  a  capacious  pocket,  produced  another  bottle, 
from  which,  in  spite  of  violent  signals  from  his  wife, 
he  begged  Mrs.  Seawright  to  have  just  a  nip,  holding 
it  invitingly  poised  above  her  tumbler.  "  Not  for  the 
young  people,"  he  said  humorously,  "but  for  the  old 
stagers  who  aren't  just  as  spry  as  they  used  to  be." 

The  "  nip  "  was  declined.  His  wife  declined  one  also, 
more  tartly  than  the  occasion  seemed  to  demand;  and 
aware  that  he  had  done  something  which  he  ought  not 
to  have  done,  Mr.  McGlade  became  melancholy  and 
silent. 

"  Are  you  really  going  to  climb  the  mountain, 
Ricky  ?"  Grace  questioned  in  an  undertone,  when  the 
meal  was  ended. 

"  Not  with  Effie." 

"  Well,  now's  the  time  then." 

That  young  lady  was  seated  between  Martin  and 
Charlie,  whose  fortunes  she  was  telling,  examining  their 
hands  alternately,  amid  much  facetious  comment  from 
the  subjects.  Grace  and  Richard  slipped  away  quietly 
through  the  trees. 


Following  the  steep  path  by  the  stream's  edge,  they 
dimbed  higher  and  higher,  passing  at  last  out  of  the 
woods,  and  on  up  the  mountain  side. 

"  Perhaps  we've  gone  far  enough,"  Richard  said 
suddenly,  throwing  aside  his  jacket,  which  he  had  been 
carrying  over  his  arm,  and  flinging  himself  down  in 
the  heather.     "  At  any  rate,  we'd  better  rest  for  a  bit." 

Grace,  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief,  seated  herself  near 
him.  She  took  the  book  he  had  brought  from  his 
jacket  pocket,  and  began  idly  to  turn  the  leaves. 

"  Is  this  for  your  examination  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes.  It  wasn't  much  use  bringing  it.  I  thought  I 
might  have  been  able  to  read  a  little  in  the  train." 

He  lay  on  his  back,  with  his  eyes  shut.  Grace  was 
glad  he  had  shut  his  eyes,  for  she  liked  to  look  at  him. 
The  soft  whiteness  of  his  shirt  made  his  skin  seem 
browner  than  usual. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  matriculate  for  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.  It  was  Mr.  Escott's  idea.  It  was 
really  just  something  to  do  in  the  winter — going  over 
the  work.  Then  I  thought  I  might  as  well  keep  on.  .  .  . 
It  was  very  decent  of  him.  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have 
let  him  do  it;  but  he  seemed  rather  keen  about  it." 

"  You  only  go  to  him  one  evening  in  the  week." 

"  1  know ;  but  he's  very  busy.  He  told  me  he  had 
practically  no  time  to  himself." 

"  But  if  he  wanted  you  to  do  it." 

96 


THE  APPRENTICE  97 

"  He  wanted  it  because  he  thought  it  would  be  good 
for  me.     It  can't  be  very  exciting  for  him." 

Grace  was  silent,  though  it  seemed  to  her  perfectly 
right  and  natural  that  Mr.  Escott  should  be  sacrificed  to 
Richard. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  stay  on  in  business  ?"  she  asked 
after  a  little. 

"Of  course I'll  have  to  stay  on,  in  any  case, 

whether  I  want  to  or  not." 

"  You  like  it  well  enough,  don't  you  ?" 

His  eyes  suddenly  opened  and  met  hers  gazing  down 
at  him. 

"  In  a  way.'* 

"  It  isn't  much  good,"  he  added.  "  There  aren't 
many  openings.  If  you  get  a  decent  job  on  the  road — 
as  a  traveller — the  pay  is  sometimes  all  right;  but  I 
won't  ever  get  that." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  It  wouldn't  be  any  use  if  I  did.  I  can't  lick  people's 
boots,  and  tell  them  yarns.  .  .  .  You've  no  idea  what 
they're  like — these  grocers  and  people.  Some  of  them 
can  hardly  open  their  mouths  without  insulting  you." 

"  But  isn't  there  anything  else  ?" 

"  Precious  little.  .  .  .  Each  house  has  only  one 
buyer.  If  I  got  a  job  of  that  sort  it  would  only  be  by 
the  most  terrific  luck.  .  .  .  And,  at  any  rate,  I  haven't 
a  keen  enough  sense  of  smell  to  be  really  good  at  it. 
If  I  were  out  of  my  time  now,  the  only  thing  I  could 
do  would  be  to  go  to  India  or  Ceylon — either  that  or 
just  become  an  ordinary  clerk." 

Grace  waited  a  moment. 

"  And  for  how  long  have  you  known  this  ?" 

"  Oh,   for    a   long    time.     It's    not    very    cheerful,    of 

7 


98     AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

course;  but  what  can  you  do?  Mother  thinks  it's  all 
right,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  say  anything  about  it." 
"  But  surely — there  must  be  things — for  a  boy  like 
you,"  she  said  slowly.  "  You  shouldn't  be  in  an  office 
at  all.  I've  always  felt  that.  You  should  be  working 
out  of  doors — on  somebody's  estate — living  in  the 
woods,  looking  after  animals,  frightening  poachers — 
you're  all  wrong  in  a  town." 

Richard  did  not  answer.  His  hands  opened  and 
shut,  catching  at  the  heather  on  either  side  of  him,  and 
presently  his  eyes  narrowed. 

"  Even  if  you  get  on  fairly  well,  do  you  think  it  is 
much  good  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  simple  and  unconscious 
pessimism. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Why  isn't  it  good  ?" 
She  bent  over  him.     He  seemed  to  her  extraordinarily 
beautiful    as    he    lay    there.     Something    rose    in    her 
throat,  choking  her  a  little,  and  she  felt  that  her  voice 
sounded  strange. 

"  What  does  it  all  lead  to  ?     What  is  it  all  about  ?" 
He  suddenly  sat  up  and  clasped  his  hands  about  his 
knees,  looking  out  over  the  sea  that  stretched  far  below 
them,  blue  and  still. 

"  It  might  be  all  right,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "  — even 
sitting  every  day  at  a  desk — if  I  knew,  if  I  could  under- 
stand, if  I  could  see  some  meaning  in  things." 
"  And  can't  you  see  any  ?" 
He  shook  his  head. 
"  You  think  there  isn*t  any  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  sure.  ...  If  I  was  sure,  I'd 
drop  out.  That  sort  of  thing  isn't  good  enough — just 
by  itself — as  beginning  and  end.  .  .  .  One  evening — 
it  was  last  Monday — you  remember  I  came  home  rather 


THE  APPRENTICE  99 

late.  I  had  been  for  a  walk,  and  on  my  way  home  I 
had  to  pass  a  place  where  there  were  no  houses — nothing 
but  trees.  The  town  lamps  didn't  come  out  so  far,  and 
it  was  fairly  dark,  but  not  very.  I  didn't  mind  it  at 
first.  I've  gone  along  the  same  road  hundreds  of  times. 
Why  should  I  mind  it  ?  But  this  time  when  I  reached 
a  particular  point  I  couldn't  go  any  further.  It  was 
quite  quiet;  nothing  moved;  I  didn't  see  anything;  yet 
I  felt  there  was  something  there,  a  little  ahead  of  me — 
something  I  couldn't  pass.  ...  I  didn't  try  to 
imagine  what  it  might  be — didn't  think  of  ghosts  or 
anything  like  that.  Only — I  couldn't  face  it.  .  .  .  I 
went  back  a  little  way  and  waited — had  to  wait  for  a 
long  time — but  at  last  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse 
trotting.  It  was  a  man  in  a  dog-cart.  He  stopped 
when  I  called  to  him.  I  told  him  just  what  I  have  told 
you.  He  laughed,  and  said  my  nerves  must  be  out  of 
order,  but  he  drove  me  on  to  where  the  houses  and  the 
lamps  began."  He  paused,  as  if  trying  to  piece  it  all 
out  very  deliberately.  "  Supposing  it  was  partly  that — 
my  nerves,  I  mean — mayn't  there  be  things  that  we  can 
only  get  to  know  about  abnormally  ?  Another  world — 
there,  but  not  there  for  us^  at  ordinary  times  ?" 

His  voice  died  away ;  then  began  again.  "  I've  been 
trying  to  find  out  things.  Nothing  seems  satisfactory, 
if  you  go  back  far  enough.  You  think  you're  getting 
there,  and  then — it  fails,  leaves  you  where  you  were 
before.  .  .  .  I've  talked  about  things  with  Mr.  Escott. 
I've  read  about  them.  But  it's  no  use — no  use  to 
me.  .  .  .  And  it  isn't  that  I'm  not  interested  in 
ordinary  everyday  things.     I  am^  up  to  a  certain  point. 

Only — I  don't  know I  started  to  write  an  essay 

for  the  Debating  Society,  on  *  Marriage  and  the  Value 


100    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

of  the  Home.'  I  got  half-way  through  it,  and  then  I 
saw  that  it  was  all  a  fake,  a  pretence.  I  was  interested, 
but  I  didn't  really  care^  though  I  tried  to  make  myself 
believe  that  I  did.  And  it's  the  same  about  the  other 
subjects  we  discuss — most  of  them.  I  don't  care 
whether  women  get  the  vote  or  not ;  I  don't  care  whether 
socialism  comes  or  not;  I  don't  care  whether  we  get 
Home  Rule  or  not.  I  mean  to  say,  there  is  something 
else  that  I  care  about  infinitely  more — something  that 
all  these  things  leave  untouched.  I  don't  suppose  you 
understand  me,  but  it's  frightfully  hard  to  explain." 

He  had  lain  back  again  in  the  heather,  and  she  lifted 
one  of  his  hands  and  drew  it  softly  down  her  cheek 
and  softly  across  her  lips. 

"  What  is  it  you  care  for  ?" 

"  Something  that  goes  behind  those  other  things. 
They,  somehow,  seem  superficial.     I  mean — there  must 

be — a  purpose.     I  want Oh,  I'm  only  talking  rot. 

I  can't  tell  you." 

Grace  was  silent.  She  had  never  seen  him  just  like 
this  before ;  never  come  so  close  to  him.  She  wondered 
what  had  made  him  so  responsive.  And  she  knew,  in 
her  heart,  that  there  was  only  one  thing  in  the  world — 
if  he  would  but  see  it.  One  thing  that,  if  he  could  but 
see  it  and  feel  it,  would  make  everything  else  of  no 
importance  in  comparison  with  its  beauty. 

Presently  she  asked,  "  Do  you  ever  write  poetry 
now  ?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  can't.  The  things  I  did 
when  I  was  a  kid  I  still  rather  like ;  but  what  I  do  now, 
if  I  try  to  do  anything,  is  the  sort  of  feeble,  correct  stuff 
you  get  in  magazines.  It's  no  good.  My  imagination 
seems  dried  up.     I  don't  know  what  it  is." 


THE  APPR'E'K[¥ieS'  '>■•'''•'''  ' 'loi 

"  But  can't  you  enjoy  this,  Ricky — this  that's  all 
round  you  ?" 

"I  do  enjoy  it.     It's  not   that "     He  hesitated, 

and  was  silent. 

She  looked  into  his  dark  eyes,  at  his  parted  lips,  at 
the  faint  shadow  of  down  on  his  upper  lip.  His  mouth 
was  very  beautiful.  It  seemed,  somehow,  wonderfully 
delicate  and  innocent.  She  bent  down  and  kissed  his 
eyes  that  closed  under  her  light  kiss.  He  did  not  draw 
away  from  her,  as  he  usually  did.  He  even  smiled  a 
little.     Yet  she  did  not  dare  to  kiss  him  on  his  mouth. 

"  Would  you  be  frightened  to  go  away,  to  leave 
everything  behind  you  and  go  right  out  into  the  world 
alone  ?"  she  all  at  once  asked,  making  him  look  up  at 
her  in  surprise. 

"  The  world  ?"  he  repeated  wonderingly. 

"  Wild  places — uncivilized — try  your  luck.  I've 
always  thought  of  you  as  an  adventurer.  You  wouldn't 
be  likely  to  starve." 

"  But  what  do  you  mean  ?     It  wouldn't  be  possible  !" 

"  You'd  have  to  rough  it,  of  course ;  work  your  way ; 
but  you're  strong.  .  .  .  That's  the  real  life."  Her  voice 
had  a  strange  glow  of  enthusiasm.  "  What  use  is  there 
in  reading  about  things  that  you  can't  see  and  touch 
and  smell  and  taste  for  yourself  ?  You  could  do  it,  you 
know.     A  man  can  do  anything." 

Richard  did  not  answer.  What  Grace  was  saying 
suddenly  ceased  to  strike  him  as  peculiar.  It  seemed 
natural,  true. 

"  There  is  your  adventure  waiting  for  you,"  she  went 
on.  "  I  don't  expect  you're  ready  for  it  yet,  but  I 
believe  you  will  go  some  day.  I  can't  connect  you  with 
towns,  with  an  office,  with  the  life  we  lead — even,  in  a 


IG2         AT  THi:  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

way,  with  civilization.  .  .  .  What  is  it  you  would  mind 
leaving  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  It's  not  as  if  you  were  so  very  happy  as  you  are." 

"  No." 

"  Aren't  you  sometimes  very  z/;2happy  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  must  know  that." 

He  did  not  reply.  He  tried  to  think.  Then  he  spoke 
— disjointedly,  almost  incoherently,  sometimes  quickly, 
sometimes  slowly.  "  It's  because  I'm  lonely ;  because  .  .  . 
Mother  doesn't  care  for  me — she  never  did.  She  tries 
to,  but  she  can't.  She  can  only  care  for  Martin,  who's 
a  beast.  .  .  .  He's  done  dirty  tricks  all  his  life — to 
me.  When  I  was  a  little  chap,  about  eight  or  nine,  he 
used  to  bully  me,  twist  my  arm — do  things.  That 
kitten  I  had  he  gave  to  some  boys  and  they  killed  it — 
stoned  it  out  of  a  tree,  hunted  it  with  two  terriers.  Then 
I  began  to  hate  him.  I  hate  him  now.  But  I  got 
stronger — stronger  than  he  was,  and  he  had  to  let  me 
alone.  Only  he  found  other  ways.  He  used  to  tell  me 
of  things  he  had  done,  things  he  knew  I  would  hate, 
cruel  things,  like  that  about  the  kitten.  He  may  not 
have  done  them  all — I  don't  know — but  he  knew  they 
made  me  miserable.  I  was  a  silly  little  chap,  but  I 
couldn't  help  it.  And  he  told  tales  about  me  to  other 
boys — lies,  yet  always  with  a  little  truth  in  them — and 
the  others  always  liked  him  best — he  could  turn  every- 
body against  me  except  Jimmy.  He  got  hold  of  some 
of  my  poems,  and  showed  them  about  at  school.  .  .  . 
I  couldn't  avoid  him,  because  we  always  slept  together. 
He  knew  I  liked  going  round  to  the  stables,  that  I  liked 
the  horses  and  Jimmy,  and  that  Jimmy  was  decent  to 


THE  APPRENTICE  103 

me ;  so  he  tried  to  get  mother  to  say  I  wasn't  to  go,  told 
her  I  would  hear  things  from  the  men  and  boys  there 
that  I  oughtn't  to  hear.  But  the  worst  things  I  ever 
heard  in  my  life  came  from  him.  ...  I  had  a  bad  time. 
I  dare  say  it  was  very  easy  to  give  me  a  bad  time.  .  .  . 
I  could  have  stopped  some  of  it,  perhaps,  by  telling ;  but 
I  didn't  tell — I  was  ashamed,  somehow,  and  didn't 
want  anyone  to  know.  .  .  .  What  I  used  to  pray  for 
was  to  have  a  friend  of  my  own,  and  sometimes  I 
dreamed  that  I  had  one,  a  friend  I  could  talk  to  as  I 
am  talking  now  to  you — in  dreamland — now  and  then — 
a  dream  only.  .  .  .  And  when  I  wakened  I  would  cry, 
and  stuff  the  bedclothes  into  my  mouth  so  that  no  one 
would  hear  me.  I  thought  I  could  never  be  happy 
again — stupid  little  kid.  .  .  .  Sometimes  it  has  been 
horrible — black — with  nothing  there — nothing  but 
what's  hateful.  I've  blubbed,  you  know;  and  I've 
wished  it  was  over.  .  .  .  And  there  are  things  about 
myself  that  I  hate.  Sometimes  I  want  to  do  things — to 
be  a  beast.  Once  mother  began  to  talk  to  me  about  all 
that.     I  don't  know  how  she  guessed " 

He  was  trembling.  He  had  forgotten  everything  but 
the  relief  of  speaking  at  last.  An  overwhelming  wave 
of  emotion  swept  through  him.  He  wanted — wanted 
all  that  life,  as  he  knew  it  now,  could  never  give.  He 
hid  his  face  in  the  heather  and  began  to  sob  wildly. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  Charlie's  voice  hallooing  to 
them.  He  had  just  emerged  from  the  wood  below,  but 
at  once  he  caught  sight  of  Grace  and  waved  his 
hand. 

She  bent   down.     "  Ricky,  they're  coming." 

That  strange,  emotional  outburst  had  already  passed, 
and    with    his    face    still    turned    to    the    heather    he 


104    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

dried  his  tears  and  then  sat  up.  "  Silly  fool,"  he  said 
savagely,  angry  at  his  own  weakness.  "  You'll  not  have 
any  difficulty  now  in  believing  that  I  used  to  blub  when 
I  was  a  kid." 

Charlie  was  advancing  leisurely,  and  next  moment 
Effie  and  Martin  also  appeared.  Richard  and  Grace 
watched  their  approach  in  silence. 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  where  you  were  going  to  ?" 
Effie  began,  as  soon  as  she  came  within  speaking 
distance.  "  We  hunted  the  whole  woods  for  you,  and  I 
got  nearly  up  to  my  knees  in  a  sort  of  horrid  boggy 
place  that  looked  just  like  ordinary  grass.  I  had  to 
take  off  my  boots  and  stockings  and  wash  them  in  the 
stream,  and  they're  only  about  half  dry  now,  though 
we  hung  them  in  front  of  the  fire.  Ma's  fussing  about 
the  train  already.  They're  going  to  walk  on  slowly, 
and  we're  to  follow  them  and  catch  them  up  before  they 
reach  the  station." 

As  she  spoke  Richard  had  a  swift  vision  of  the 
journey  back — of  his  mother  hot  and  flushed,  of  Effie 
equally  hot,  of  Charlie  and  Martin  singing  songs,  of 
Mr.  McGlade,  who  would  probably  by  this  time  have 
finished  what  remained  of  the  whisky,  of  the  crush  and 
heat  and  noise — and  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  not  go  back  to  these  things  just  yet. 
Grace  had  risen.  "  Perhaps  we'd  better  go." 
She  did  not  look  at  Richard,  who  made  no  movement 
to  follow  her. 

"You  are  a  lazy  brute!"  Charlie  laughed.  "There's 
not  too  much  time,  really — especially  if  we  want  to  get 
a  carriage  to  ourselves." 

"  I'm  not  coming,"  Richard  answered  simply. 
Nobody  grasped  his  meaning  except  Grace. 


THE  APPRENTICE  105 

"  But  if  we  wait  we'll  only  have  to  rush  it,"  Charlie 
urged. 

"  I  know.  What  I  mean  is  that  I'm  not  coming  by 
this  train." 

"  There  isn't  any  other  train,"  said  Charlie,  still  not 
understanding. 

"  There  will  be  another  to-morrow.  I'm  going  to 
spend  the  night  here." 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,"  dropped  Martin,  with  brotherly 
briefness. 

"  There's  a  sort  of  summer-house,  or  the  remains  of 
one,  down  there  in  the  woods.  You  must  have  passed 
it  on  your  way  up.  I  can  make  a  bed  there.  There's 
no  roof,  but  it  isn't  going  to  rain." 

Grace  had  already  begun  to  descend  the  hillside, 
followed  by  Effie.  Martin  called  after  her :  "  Look 
here,  tell  him  to  come." 

She  did  not  answer.. 

Charlie  laughed.  "  I've  half  a  mind  to  stay  myself," 
he  declared. 

"  Do  stay." 

Charlie  hesitated,  but  Martin  drew  him  by  the  arm, 
and  he  gave  way.     "  Well,  pleasant  dreams,"  he  said. 

Richard  watched  them  descend  the  mountain.  Just 
before  they  reached  the  trees  Charlie  looked  back  and 
waved  his  hat  in  farewell.  No  one  else  turned,  and  a 
moment  later  they  entered  the  outer  fringe  of  the  wood 
and  were  hidden  from  view. 

The  afternoon  was  extraordinarily  peaceful.  The 
bees  droned  in  the  heather,  and  the  grasshoppers  made 
a  shrill  whirring,  now  far,  now  near.  In  the  distance, 
below  the  woods,  the  dark,  sun-splashed  sea  curled  in 
little  waves  to  the  stretch  of  white  beach. 


io6    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

The  sun  slanted  lower,  and  presently,  after  what 
seemed  a  long  time,  through  the  windless  quiet  there 
came  the  faint  sound  of  an  engine  whistling.  He  felt 
now  that  he  was  really  alone,  and  a  curious  sense  of 
dreaming  closed  about  him.  That  faint,  far  whistle 
seemed  to  have  cut  him  off  for  ever  from  the  past,  from 
the  old  world,  the  old  life.  This — this  that  he  was 
enjoying  just  now — would  be  permanent. 

After  a  little  he  got  up  and  made  his  way  down  to 
the  summer-house,  where  he  prepared  his  sleeping 
quarters,  cutting  armfuls  of  dry  bracken  for  a  bed.  He 
then  went  on  to  the  village  for  provisions,  and  by  the 
time  he  got  back  to  the  wood  it  was  already  dusk.  He 
ate  his  supper  by  candlelight,  the  flames  of  the  two 
candles  hardly  stirring  in  the  windless  air.  Not  a  leaf 
rustled. 

It  was  curiously  quiet.  The  birds  had  gone  to  roost, 
and  sleep,  like  an  immense  curtain,  had  dropped  down 
over  the  silent  world. 

He  folded  his  jacket  for  a  pillow,  and  in  the  soft 
bracken,  with  a  canopy  of  trees  stooping  above  his  head 
and  shutting  out  the  stars,  he  slid  gently  into  sleep. 

He  awakened  in  an  inky  darkness,  and  for  a  moment 
or  two  could  not  imagine  where  he  was.  Then  he 
remembered.  The  sound  he  heard  was  a  faint  stirring 
of  myriads  of  leaves.  The  night  had  suddenly  found  a 
voice,  and  was  whispering  old,  old  tales ;  the  same  tales 
that  she  had  whispered  to  primordial  man.  He 
wondered  what  time  it  was,  for  he  felt  wide  awake,  yet 
it  was  still  pitch  dark.  Presently  he  got  up  and  went 
to  the  door  of  the  shelter.  From  here,  through  the 
trees,  he  could  see  patches  of  bright  moonlight,  strangely 
living,  yet  old,  old  too,  like  the  voice  of  the  leaves. 


THE  APPRENTICE  107 

He  struck  a  match,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
not  quite  two  o'clock.  He  felt  perfectly  wakeful,  and 
a  sudden  desire  to  go  up  to  where  he  and  Grace  had 
been  in  the  afternoon  seized  him.  He  stumbled  on 
through  the  light  and  shadow.  Once  a  whir  of  wings 
almost  beat  in  his  face,  with  a  startling  suddenness. 
Then,  as  he  passed  the  wood's  edge,  he  stepped  into 
a  magical  world  for  which  he  was  hardly  prepared — a 
world  remade,  a  world  bathed  in  an  amazing  white  fire,  a 
world  of  mysterious  shadows,  where  nothing  was  solid. 
Climbing  a  little  higher,  he  turned  and  looked  below 
him.  The  black  wood  stretched  down,  like  an  immense, 
crouching  beast  sleeping  upon  the  radiant  mountain 
side.  And  the  sea,  black,  glittering,  secret,  touched  with 
silver  fire — that  also  was  ancient,  a  god,  the  dwelling- 
place  of  gods. 

He  sat  upon  the  heather.  A  cool,  fresh  wind  touched 
his  cheek,  the  wind  that  had  awakened  the  whispering 
leaves.  And  all  the  intimacy  of  the  summer  night 
descended  upon  him  like  a  dream. 

The  earth  revealed  itself  to  him  now  with  a  curious 
mythopoeic  suggestiveness.  It  was  a  spirit,  an  angel, 
immensely,  wonderfully  alive.  The  beauty  of  the  night, 
the  fragrance  of  the  woods,  of  the  heather,  stung  his 
senses,  mounted  to  his  brain,  like  a  strong  wine.  He 
felt  intensely  excited,  yet  strangely  quiet.  Something 
was  going  to  happen — some  blinding,  dazzling  revela- 
tion was  about  to  be  made  to  him,  that  would  alter  his 
whole  life.  He  lay  very  still,  yet  quivering  in  all  his 
limbs,  his  black  hair  ruffled,  his  red  lips  parted,  the  rich 
blood  warm  under  his  brown  skin.  For  a  moment  he 
felt  his  brain  reel,  and  a  kind  of  f aintness  seize  him ; 
but  it  passed  almost  instantaneously,  and  he  sat  up. 


io8    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

He  could  hear  the  stream  splashing  faintly  not  fifty- 
yards  below  him,  and,  hurriedly  pulling  off  his  clothes, 
he  ran  down  to  it,  tripping  in  the  heather  and  rolling 
over,  scratching  his  body  a  little.  The  cool  water  stung 
him  for  a  moment,  and  then  its  sweetness  passed 
through  all  his  limbs  and  into  his  mind  and  spirit.  He 
stood  in  the  white  moonlight  on  the  stream's  edge,  like 
the  silver  statue  of  a  young  woodland  god,  the  water 
dripping  from  his  smooth,  shapely  body.  Then  hej 
clambered  up  to  where  his  clothes  lay  tumbled  in  a  heap, 
dressed  himself,  and  waited  for  the  breaking  of  the  day. 

He  listened  to  the  birds  awakening,  rousing  them- 
selves with  a  twittering,  drowsy  sweetness.  The  sky 
was  of  a  pale,  the  palest,  green,  soft  as  a  chalk  drawing, 
softer  than  any  drawing  could  ever  be.  Right  across 
the  horizon  lay  a  dark,  smoke-grey  cloud,  tapering  to 
a  thread  at  the  ends.  Against  the  sky  the  heavy  masses 
of  the  trees  were  rounded,  turning  gradually,  as  the 
light  increased,  from  black  to  green.  A  gold  star  shone 
in  the  pale  green  sky,  and  the  moon  was  still  there. 
The  wind  sighed  and  passed  above  him,  ruffling  his 
hair.  The  woods  with  their  lawns  and  glades  had  not 
yet  assumed  their  dayhght  appearance,  were  still  filled 
with  mystery.  The  commonest  objects  had  a  strange,  an 
altered  aspect,  as  if  he  looked  at  them  with  new  eyes. 
Then,  as  the  sun  rose,  the  colours  sprang  out  every- 
where, like  flashing  fires,  and  the  thin,  light  mist  of 
dawn  melted  away. 


VI 

On  his  return  he  had  expected  things  to  be,  in  some 
mysterious  way,  different  (above  all,  his  relations  with 
Grace),  but  a  week  had  now  gone  by,  and  the  only 
change  he  could  perceive  consisted  in  the  deliberate 
colourlessness  of  everything  she  said  and  did.  Her 
whole  manner  discouraged  him.  It  made  him  feel  as 
if  he  had  given  himself  away,  receiving  nothing  in 
return.  She  did  not  even  express  any  curiosity  as  to 
how  he  had  passed  his  night  in  the  woods — nothing — 
the  whole  episode  was  closed. 

Apparently  she  could  only  take  an  interest  in  her 
two  new  pupils  (children  called  Campbell — he  knew 
them  very  well  by  sight — who  lived  in  a  big  hou^e  up 
in  one  of  the  avenues,  and  came  to  church).  Grace 
talked  about  them  all  the  time.  Mr.  Campbell  was  a 
solicitor,  and  a  widower.  His  two  children,  a  boy  and 
a  girl,  were  everything  that  was  interesting  and  charm- 
ing. She  liked  them  awfully — the  whole  family.  Mr. 
Campbell  was  so  nice,  so  thoughtful ;  the  boy  was  such  a 
dear;  and  the  little  girl  was  perfectly  sweet. 

Sitting  at  the  kitchen  table,  copying  some  music, 
she  continued  to  sing  their  praises  till  he  was  sick  of 
the  very  sound  of  their  names.  And  Mrs.  Seawright 
listened  to  all  she  said,  and  made  remarks  of  her  own, 
which  Grace  seized  upon  as  an  excuse  for  saying 
more. 

109 


no    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  It's  a  pity  you  didn't  get  to  know  them  a  little 
sooner,"  he  couldn't  help  interjecting.  "  All  your  past 
life  must  seem  so  wasted." 

Grace  regarded  him  with  affected  surprise,  slightly 
raising  her  eyebrows.  He  knew  that  she  knew  exactly 
how  this  sort  of  drivel  bored  him.  He  even  felt  that 
she  must  be  producing  it  on  purpose.  What  he  couldn't 
understand  was  why  it  should  give  her  any  pleasure  to 
do  so.  But  she  began  next  moment  to  talk  in  much 
the  same  way  about  a  novel — a  nauseous  mixture  of 
sickly  erotics  and  sloppy  religious  sentiment,  which  had 
gone  into  countless  editions.  Like  the  Campbell 
children,  it  was  "  perfectly  sweet." 

"  What's  sweet  about  it  ?"  he  growled,  for  he  had 
looked  over  the  book  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"  The  ideas  are  so  nice,"  she  replied  softly,  "  — the 
thoughts." 

He  raised  and  dropped  his  head  with  a  quick  move- 
ment expressive  of  disgust,  and  Grace  added,  even  more 
angelically,  "  You'll  like  it  when  you  get  a  little  older, 
Ricky.     Of  course,  it  isn't  a  boy's  book." 

At  this  he  got  up  and  said  "  Good-night,"  though  it 
was  nearly  an  hour  earlier  than  his  usual  time  for  doing 
so.  He  took  a  book  from  his  shelf  to  read  in 
bed,  selecting — rather  ostentatiously  perhaps — Hume's 
"  Treatise  on  Human  Nature."  He  felt  that  such  a 
choice  sufficiently  squashed  Grace's  remarks  about 
"  boys'  books  "  and  "  when  he  got  older." 
She  smiled. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?"  he  asked,  colouring 
up.  "  I  suppose  you  think  I'm  reading  this  to  show 
off?" 

"  Dear     Ricky,     why     should     I     think     so  ?       I'm 


THE  APPRENTICE  in 

sure  you're  reading  it  for  pleasure,  and  perhaps  also  to 
improve  your  mind." 

He  went  out,  slamming  the  door  behind  him.  To  the 
stairs  he  confided  his  repartee,  which  consisted  of  a 
single  word. 

Up  in  his  own  room,  with  the  book  propped  against 
his  knees,  he  read  Hume  grimly  and  doggedly,  though 
he  didn't  want  to  read  him,  and  nobody  would  have 
known  if  he  hadn't  read  him.  Moreover,  he  couldn't 
take  in  what  he  did  read.  On  the  contrary,  he  found 
himself  thinking  all  the  time  of  Grace.  He  resolved 
that  he  would  never  again  allow  anything  she  said  to 
ruffle  his  temper.  He  had  made  the  same  resolve  before 
— more  than  once — but  she  always  seemed  able  to  get 
at  him  in  a  new  way. 

She  had  such  a  beastly  ironical  mind  !  He  didn't 
approve,  either,  of  the  way  she  mystified  his 
mother — for  it  really  came  to  that.  His  mother  had 
not  the  slightest  idea  what  Grace  was  like.  How  could 
she  have  ?  He  had  no  very  clear  idea  himself,  beyond 
the  fact  that  he  was  sure  she  wasn't,  in  any  given 
circumstances,  in  the  least  like  what  she  was  supposed 
to  be.  .  .  . 

And  she  could  never  leave  him  alone.  She  was 
always  messing  about,  wanting  to  kiss  him,  and  next 
moment  getting  him  into  rows,  or,  as  to-night,  making 
him  lose  his  temper.  He  could  not  understand  why 
he  should  sometimes  have  the  feeling  that  she  cared  for 
him — in  a  queer,  unsatisfactory  sort  of  way — more  than 
anybody  else  did.  Probably  she  didn't  care  for  him  at 
all,  really,  and  he  was  a  fool  ever  to  have  thought  she  did. 
He  opened  Hume  again,  impatiently,  but  while  he 
read  he  was  actually  trying  to  recall  what  Grace  had 


112    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

said  to  him  about  adventure — about  seeing  and  tasting 
and  feeling  things  for  himself.  His  mind  suddenly 
filled  with  a  vision  of  the  darkness  and  the  moonlight, 
of  the  woods  and  the  sea.  What  was  it  that  had  been 
going  to  happen  to  him  that  night,  as  he  lay  out  on 
the  open  hillside  ?  Something,  surely  ?  And  that 
strange,  brief  madness  which  had  sent  him  rurming 
down  naked  to  the  water — as  if  for  protection. 
Protection  from  what  ?  What  was  there  to  fear  ?  He 
had  not  really  been  afraid.  And  that  night  on  the 
lonely  road  ?     Yes ;  he  had  been  afraid  then. 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  Martin  came  in. 

"  Still  at  it  ?"  he  smiled,  advancing  to  the  foot  of  the 
bed  and  looking  down  at  his  brother,  his  bright,  hand- 
some face  a  little  flushed. 

Richard  mechanically  turned  a  page,  while  Martin 
began  to  walk  aimlessly  about  the  room,  pulling  open 
drawers  and  closing  them.  He  hung  his  jacket  over 
the  back  of  a  chair,  poured  some  water  into  a  basin, 
and  dipped  his  face  in  it.  Then,  with  many  further 
delays,  he  proceeded  to  undress. 

It  slowly  dawned  upon  Richard,  though  he  could 
hardly  have  said  why,  that  all  this  loitering  about  was 
peculiar.  He  had  an  idea  that  Martin  wanted  to  tell 
him  something.  The  lack  of  any  intimacy  between 
them  made  conversation,  save  of  the  most  casual  sort, 
difficult,  and  he  waited  with  curiosity  to  see  how  it 
would  begin. 

"  Ever  been  to  the  Palace  ?"  Martin  asked,  apparently 
absorbed  in  his  own  image  as  it  was  reflected  in  the 
looking-glass. 

Richard  stared  over  the  top  of  his  book,  and  answered, 
"  No/* 


THE  APPRENTICE  113 

"  There's  a  good  show  on  there  this  week.  I'll  stand 
you  in  if  you  like." 

Richard  still  stared  at  Martin's  back.  Why  this 
mood  of  generosity  ?  It  did  not  impress  him,  and 
instead  of  replying  he  pursued  aloud  the  train  of  his 
own  thoughts.  "  Where  do  you  get  the  money  from  to 
go  to  these  places  ?  Where  did  you  get  the  money 
to  buy  your  gun  ?  Charlie  told  me  you  had  bought 
one. 

Martin  looked  round  with  a  quick,  delightful  smile. 
"  You  see,  I've  made  a  little  on  horses  lately.  It's  all 
right,"  he  added.  "  It's  quite  safe.  I  know  a  girl  who 
gets  the  tips.  You  needn't  be  saying  anything  about 
it,  of  course." 

That  something  in  his  appearance,  in  the  way  he 
spoke,  which  had  struck  Richard  as  strange,  all  at 
once  flashed  upon  him  in  its  true  light,  giving  him,  at 
the  same  time,  a  considerable  shock.  He  felt  a  little 
sick,  felt  a  sort  of  physical  chill,  as  if  an  imminent 
danger  had  unexpectedly  been  revealed  to  him.  Ma^rtin 
was  not  quite  sober. 

In  silence  he  watched  him  put  on  his  nightshirt,  but, 
instead  of  getting  into  bed,  he  sat  down  on  the  side 
of  it,  and  produced  still  further  confidences. 

"  By  the  way,  Charlie  and  I  happened  to  drop  in  at 
the  Palace  to-night,  and  we  saw  a  chum  of  yours  there 
— at  least,  he's  in  your  place — a  fellow  called  Douglas." 

Richard  felt  himself  colouring,  felt  a  kind  of  shame. 
"  Is  that  why  you  wanted  to  stand  me  in  ?  I  don't 
suppose  he  would  have  mentioned  that  he  had  seen  you, 
and  if  he  had  I  shouldn't  have  told  anybody." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  Martin  laughed. 

The  bewildering  crudeness  of  his  brother's  diplomacy 

8 


114    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

suggested  to  the  younger  boy  a  whole  train  of  fore- 
bodings not  directly  connected  with  it.  But  if  a  fellow 
was  such  an  ass  as  that,  there  was  no  saying  what 
scrapes  he  mightn't  get  into.  And  he  had  a  distinct 
vision — promoted  by  the  thought  of  the  "  girl  who  got 
the  tips  " — of  the  particular  kind  of  scrape  that  Martin's 
personal  attractiveness  would  make  him  liable  to.  Even 
what  he  had  learned  about  him  to-night  showed  how 
far  he  must  already  have  fallen  from  a  state  of  grace. 
He  thought  of  their  mother. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  as  Martin  was  getting  up 
to  turn  out  the  gas.  He  hesitated.  It  was  a  case,  he 
believed,  for  being  as  friendly  as  possible;  and  there 
was  always  the  great  advantage  that  Martin  could  not 
be  shocked. 

"  You're  not  going  with  girls — or  anything  like 
that  ?" 

He  was  quite  wrong.  Martin  was  shocked.  "  I  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about ! " 

Richard's  lips  moved  in  an  involuntary  murmur : 
"  You  always  were  a  liar,  you  know." 

"What?"  Martin  asked. 

"  Nothing.  .  .  .  You  do  know  what  I  mean,  all  the 
same,  or  you  wouldn't  deny  it.  .  .  .  That  girl  you  get 
your  tips  from ?" 

"  I  didn't  deny  anything.  It's  just  like  you  to 
suggest  such  things,  though.  You  must  be  thinking  of 
them  a  good  deal  yourself  or  you  wouldn't  have  accused 
me. 

"  You  used  to  talk — in  that  way." 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"  You  said  the  girls  in  your  place  were  always  putting 
their  arms  round  you  when  they  met  you  on  the  stairs 


THE  APPRENTICE  115 

or  in  the  passages.  There  wasn't  very  much  you 
didn't  say,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

Martin  was  full  of  righteous  indignation,  of  injured 
innocence.  "  That  was  when  I  was  a  kid ;  when  I  first 
went.  Upon  my  soul !  You've  got  a  nice  kind  of 
mind  !" 

Richard  received  this  comment  in  silence,  and 
Martin's  indignation  vanished  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
arisen. 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  give  up  your  Sunday-school 
class,"  the  younger  boy  said  slowly. 

"  How  the  devil  am  I  to  give  it  up  ?"  cried  Martin, 
exasperated  anew  by  this  suggestion,  which  appeared, 
indeed,  to  touch  him  more  sharply  than  anything  yet. 
"  Do  you  think  I  want  to  keep  up  the  damned  thing !" 

"  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  tell  Mr.  Escott." 

"  Yes ;  you  can  lie  there  jawing ;  but  it's  not  all  I've  got 
to  do.  I  don't  care  a  fig  about  Mr.  Escott.  He's  a 
silly  ass  anyway.     But  I'd  have  to  tell  mother  too." 

"  You're  telling  her  now,  you  see — the  other  thing." 

"  What  other  thing  ?" 

"  Well,  it's  pretty  low  down,  isn't  it,  to  go  on  pretend- 
ing to  be  what  you're  not  ?" 

Martin  scratched  his  head,  with  a  half  merry,  half 
rueful  expression. 

"Mother  will  mind  at  first,"  Richard  added.  "But 
very  soon  she'll  get  used  to  the  idea.     Besides,  you  can 

say — I  don't  know  what That  when  Sunday  comes 

you're  tired,  and  want  to  be  out  in  the  fresh  air — some- 
thing like  that.     She'll  understand." 

Martin  laughed.  "  You're  a  rum  sort  of  chap,  you 
know  !  Well,  we'll  give  the  matter  our  best  considera- 
tion.    Only " 


ii6    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Only  what  ?" 

"  Couldn't  you  get  me  out  of  it  in  some  way  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  how." 

Martin  glanced  obliquely  at  him,  with  a  dawning 
smile.  "  You  might  work  Mr.  Escott.  Get  him  to 
say  he  thinks  I'd  be  better  going  for  a  walk  on 
Sunday,  seeing  how  I'm  cooped  up  in  an  office  all  week 
— any  tosh  like  that.  Then  I  could  reluctantly  consent, 
perhaps,  and  it  would  be  all  right." 

"  You  mean  you  want  Mr.  Escott  to  tell  lies  in  order  to 
save  you  from  the  disagreeableness  of  telling  the  truth  ?" 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  lie,"  said  Martin,  plaintively.  "  I 
would  be  better  going  for  a  walk.  You  said  so  your- 
self a  minute  ago — before  you  began  to  talk  like  an 
improving  book.  At  any  rate,  there  would  be  fewer 
lies  this  way  than  any  other.  Only  imagine  all  I'm 
telling  now,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  by  filling  up  these 
kids  with  second-hand  religious  muck." 

"  There's  no  need  for  you  to  tell  them  muck." 

"  Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  I'd  be  awfully 
obliged  too.  .  .  .  Think  of  all  the  things  I've  done  for 
you  r  He  smiled  with  a  certain  conscious  rascality  that 
was  not  without  its  humour.  "  It  does  seem  a  bit 
rummy  that  it  should  be  me  and  not  you  who's  putting 
half  the  kids  of  the  parish  in  the  right  path.  Think, 
Ricky,  of  what  I've  already  done  for  the  community, 
even  if  I  don^t  keep  it  up." 

Richard  was  not  listening  to  him.  He  was  turning 
over  ways  and  means  in  his  mind,  and  wondering  if 
Martin's  plan  would  not  after  all  be  the  best  way  out, 
considering  how  their  mother  took  such  things. 

"  If  I  ask  Mr.  Escott  to  do  this,"  he  presently  said, 
"  will  you  promise  not  to  touch  drink  again  ?" 


THE  APPRENTICE  117 

"  Drink  !"  Martin  echoed,  with  great  surprise. 

"  You  know  you've  had  some  to-night." 

"  If  you  call  one " 

"  I  don't  believe  that." 

"  Well,  put  it  at  two  then.  Could  you  believe  in  two, 
Ricky  ?     No  ?" 

"  You  seem  to  think  it  doesn't  matter — that  it's  even 
rather  funny." 

"  I  think  you're  rather  funny.  But  I'll  promise  any- 
thing you  like." 

"  On  your  honour  ?" 

"  On  my  honour." 

"  You'll  never  touch  drink  again  ?" 

"  Never  again." 

."  Then  I'll  ask  him." 

"  But  if  he  won't  do  it  ?" 

"  He  will  do  it." 

"  Well— thanks  awfully." 


VII 

In  the  autumn  Richard  received  notice  that  he  had 
matriculated,  but  long  before  then  his  interest  in  the 
matter  had  ceased.  A  quite  different  plan  had  swum 
into  the  horizon,  in  accordance  with  which  he  mapped 
out  a  course  of  reading  for  the  winter.  The  first  book 
upon  his  list  was  Bradley's  "  Appearance  and  Reality," 
but  he  could  make  little  of  that  work,  and  after 
struggling  through  fifty  pages  gave  it  up.  He  decided 
that  if  Bradley  baffled  him  it  was  because  he  should 
have  begun  farther  back,  and,  under  the  guidance  of 
Zeller,  Vol.  I.,  embarked  upon  the  tranquil  sea  of  Greek 
philosophy. 

Mrs.  Wilberforce,  meeting  him  one  day  as  he  was 
coming  home,  stopped  to  congratulate  him  upon  his 
success.  His  mother  had  told  her  about  the  examina- 
tion; and  they  all  seemed  to  take  it  seriously,  so 
seriously  that  he  was  ashamed  to  confess  its  real 
insignificance.  The  vagueness  of  his  purpose,  if  he 
could  be  said  to  have  any  purpose  at  all,  was  rendered 
more  striking  by  contrast  with  the  intensely  practical 
ambitions  of  both  Martin  and  Grace.  Study  that  began 
and  ended  in  itself  was  incomprehensible.  It  was  a 
waste  of  time.  He  could  not  see  it,  but  everybody  else 
saw  it,  Grace  among  them;  and  what  emerged  for  him 
from  a  multitude  of  arguments  was  the  unqualified 
worldlincss  of  the  point  of  view  he  was  asked  to  accept 
— a  point  of  view  that,  should  he  reject  it,  would  place 

ii8 


THE  APPRENTICE  119 

him  definitely  in  the  ranks  of  visionaries  and  generally 
hopeless  persons.  Grace,  from  the  first,  seemed  to  have 
achieved  success — success,  as  everybody  about  him  con- 
ceived of  it — and  Martin  was  obviously  going  to.  What 
they  could  not,  what  his  mother,  above  all,  could  not, 
understand,  was  that  they  had  accepted  life  on  their 
own  terms,  and  that  he  must  accept  it  on  his.  It  was 
about  this  time  that  Mrs.  Seawright  began  to  notice  a 
change  in  the  girl's  relation  to  her  younger  son.  The 
change  was  very  subtle,  very  slight.  It  was  not  that 
they  were  more  intimate  than  before,  nor  even  that  they 
quarrelled  less;  indeed,  it  consisted  principally  in  the 
fact  that  Grace  talked  less  about  him.  Her  wonderful 
affection  for  him,  wonderful  from  the  days  of  childhood, 
had  in  the  mother's  eyes  suddenly  become  an  object 
for  meditation.  She  began  to  watch  them.  They 
would  sit  in  the  darkness  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  while 
Grace  played  to  him,  and  this  practice  did  not  commend 
itself  to  Mrs.  Seawright.  She  would  have  liked  to 
forbid  it  altogether,  and  invariably,  when  she  came  into 
the  room  on  such  occasions,  she  lit  the  gas.  She  even, 
when  she  heard  the  piano,  and  could  think  of  an  excuse, 
went  upstairs  on  purpose  to  light  it,  though  she  knew 
such  interruptions  were  annoying  in  the  extreme.  Then 
it  seemed  to  her  that  a  coldness  sprang  up  between 
them,  quite  different  in  kind  from  the  many  disagree- 
ments they  had  had  in  the  past;  but  she  did  not  like 
to  question  Grace,  and  Grace,  on  this  point,  was  as 
reticent  as  Richard  himself. 

Mrs.  Seawright  could  note  the  estrangement,  however 
slight  its  manifestations,  but  its  origin  was  hidden  from 
her,  as  so  many  things  nowadays,  she  told  herself,  were 
hidden.     All   she   could   say   was  that   at   the   end   of 


120    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

January  Grace  and  Richard  were  no  longer  the  close 
friends  they  had  once  been,  with  the  immediate  result 
that  Grace  plunged  more  deeply  than  ever  into  her  work, 
and  that  Mrs.  Seawright  thought  she  was  unhappy. 

It  all  dated  back  really  to  an  evening  in  December, 
when  Richard,  having  finished  Zeller,  Vol.  III.,  on 
"  Socrates  and  the  Socratic  Schools,"  had  gone  out  for  a 
stroll  before  bedtime.  It  was  as  he  paused  beneath  a 
lamp  to  light  his  pipe  that  he  had  become  aware  cf 
hurried  footsteps  behind  him.  Wheeling  round,  still 
holding  in  his  hands  the  lighted  and  shielded  match,  he 
saw  a  girl  approaching  rapidly,  in  fact  running.  She 
was  fair;  strikingly,  vividly  pretty;  and  dressed  in 
black.  There  was,  indeed,  rather  more  of  vividness 
about  her  than  the  austere  student  of  Zeller  wholly 
approved  of.  That  is  to  say,  her  very  broad-brimmed 
hat  seemed  unnecessarily  large,  for  it  was  the  contrast 
which  this  article  of  adornment  made  with  the  girl's 
dazzling  complexion  that  somehow  struck  the  highest 
note  in  his  first  impression  of  her.  But,  agitated,  a 
little  breathless,  she  spoke  to  him  :  **  I  beg  )'our  pardon. 
.  .  .  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  walk  with 
you  .  .  .  ?  A  man  has  been  following  me  all  down  the 
road.  ...  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  There  seem  to  be 
no  policemen  about." 

Richard  looked  back  and  saw  a  figure  standing,  at 
a  distance  of  some  thirty  or  forty  yards,  in  the  shadow 
of  a  wall,  ostensibly  lighting  a  cigarette.  The  figure 
began  to  move  on,  crossing  the  road,  and  passing  on 
the  other  side,  only  again  to  come  to  a  pause.  All 
Richard's  chivalrous  instincts  were  aroused.  "What 
direction  are  you  going  in  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Straight  on — not   very  far.  .  .  .     It's   very   strange 


THE  APPRENTICE  121 

that  there  should  be  no  poHcemen  !"  She  spoke  in  a 
flat  Httle  voice  that  had  suddenly  become  nervous, 
doubtful,  as  if  the  impulse  that  had  led  her  to  appeal 
to  him  had  already  failed. 

They  walked  on  quickly,  side  by  side,  till,  by  the  wall 
of  the  University,  she  said,  "  It's  down  here,"  and  they 
turned  off  at  a  right  angle.  It  was  at  this  point  that 
Richard's  first  emotion  began  to  suffer  a  change,  and 
with  each  step  he  took  it  grew  colder,  till  only  the 
ashes  remained  of  that  first  fine  protective  blaze. 
Whether  it  was  that  his  companion  had  been  so  far  in 
advance  of  her  pursuer  when  she  had  appealed  to  him, 
whether  it  was  a  recollection  of  the  terrible  Valerie  in 
"  La  Cousine  Bette  "  (a  work  he  had  just  read  in  order 
to  improve  his  French),  whether  it  was  the  hat,  the 
dazzling  complexion,  or  merely  something  in  the  girl's 
manner,  or  all  these  things  together,  that  was  responsible 
for  his  altered  attitude,  would  be  impossible  to  say ;  but 
a  pang  of  suspicion  had  undoubtedly  shot  across  his 
sympathy.  Silently  and  stolidly  he  kept  pace  with. her, 
severely  looking  straight  before  him,  though  each  street 
lamp,  as  they  came  under  its  splashing  glare,  urged  him 
to  a  contrary  behaviour.  As  if  in  response  to  his 
uncertainty  the  girl  herself  seemed  to  become  more  and 
more  self-conscious,  and  a  glacial  constraint  closed  about 
them,  which  he  at  length  tried  to  break  through  with 
a  perfunctory  remark.  She  replied  nearly  inaudibly, 
and  they  appeared  to  have  been  walking  for  hours  in 
this  frozen  silence  when  she  at  last  stopped  before  the 
door  of  a  house  half-way  down  a  long,  commonplace 
street,  and  thanked  him. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  brought  you  much  out  of  your 
way  ?"  she  faltered. 


122    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Not  at  aU." 

They  waited,  neither  looking  at  the  other.  He 
managed  to  bring  out  that  he  was  dehghted  to  have 
been  of  any  service  to  her,  but  before  he  had  concluded 
this  effort  she  had  rung  the  bell. 

"  Good-night." 

"  Good-night." 

For  the  first  time  he  now  gazed  straight  into  her 
face.  Only  for  a  moment  their  glances  met;  then  he 
heard  the  latch  of  the  door  being  drawn  back,  and, 
lifting  his  cap,  walked  away. 

Yet  as  he  retraced  his  steps,  under  the  same  lamps, 
through  the  same  pools  of  shadow,  he  had  an  impression 
of  two  dark,  very  blue  eyes  that  were  certainly  neither 
bold  nor  wicked.  Simultaneously,  it  came  over  him 
that  he  had  behaved  odiously.  He  felt  his  cheeks  glow. 
The  timidity,  the  sweetness  of  those  eyes  kindled 
within  him  a  hot  sense  of  shame.  Their  blue  was  the 
darkest  blue  of  the  sky — deep,  cloudless,  lovely.  He 
hated  himself  for  his  suspicions,  which  had  been  as 
mean  as  they  were  stupid.  He  felt  unhappy,  miserable, 
a  beast,  a  fool.  The  strongly  puritanic  strain  in  his 
nature,  that  had  come  to  him  directly  from  his  mother, 
had  never  been  in  the  least  modified  by  his  intellectual 
emancipation,  and  it  rendered  him  liable  to  floods  of 
remorse  for  sins  imaginary  or  otherwise.  He  felt 
remorse  now,  bitter,  certainly  absurd.  If  he  had  obeyed 
his  natural  impulse  he  would  have  gone  back  there  and 
then  to  the  house  and  begged  the  girl's  pardon — for  she 
had  known,  had  known  what  he  had  thought.  He  came 
home  instead,  and  was  cross  with  Grace  at  supper. 

Next  morning,  down  at  the  office,  he  heard  Mr. 
Lambert  Jackson  inveighing  against  a  state  of  society 


THE  APPRENTICE  123 

which  made  it  impossible  for  a  lady  to  go  about  alone 
without  running  a  risk  of  being  insulted.  His  own 
daughter  Rose,  last  night,  coming  home  from  a  friend's 
house  (she  had  missed  the  last  tram  and  had  not  liked 
to  go  back  to  ask  for  an  escort) — his  daughter  Rose, 
in  the  most  respectable  quarter  of  the  town,  had  been 
spoken  to,  been  followed,  by  a  man,  a  quite  well-dressed 
man,  not  young  either.  Fortunately  some  boy  had 
come  to  her  rescue  and  had  seen  her  home.  But  she 
had  had  a  shock,  had  arrived  quite  nervous,  almost 
ill,  had  burst  into  tears,  was  trembling  all  over,  had 
hardly  been  able  to  tell  them  what  had  happened.  One 
might  as  well  be  living  in  Paris  or  Berlin  or  any  of 
those  foreign  cities  you  hear  about ! 

Stricken  still  with  last  night's  remorse,  Richard  had 
not  revealed  the  identity  of  the  rescuer  till  Mr.  Jackson 
was  alone.  Stricken  still  more  by  Mr.  Jackson's 
gratitude — Rose's  indirectly — so  undeserved — the  girl's 
fair  face,  a  picture  now  of  wronged  innocence,  floated 
before  him,  two  dark  blue  eyes  regarding  him  reproach- 
fully. He  presently  came  to  see  that  the  tears,  the 
nervousness,  must  have  been  more  the  result  of  his 
groundless,  his  unspeakably  cruel  suspicions,  than  of 
anything  else.  At  a  week's  end  he  had  come  to  regard 
himself  as  a  betrayer  of  confidence;  at  the  end  of  a 
fortnight  those  so  blue,  reproachful  eyes  haunted  him. 
In  their  sweetness  the  expression  of  reproach  became 
unbearable,  and  a  desire  to  see  it  change  to  one  of 
forgiveness  began  to  obsess  him.  The  weeks  im- 
mediately following  Christmas  were  distinguished  by 
the  dawn  of  a  romance  whose  flights  were  none  the  less 
bold  for  the  timidity  which  prevented  Richard  from 
taking  even  the  first  step  towards  their  realization.     On 


124    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

Saturday  and  Sunday  afternoons,  in  solitary  walks 
along  muddy  roads,  between  yellow  sodden  fields  and 
under  grey  skies,  he  pursued  its  wanderings.  These 
walks  were  solitary,  but  not  dull;  at  times  they  were 
almost  passionately  exciting.  And  he  never  doubted 
that  Rose,  the  actual  Rose,  was  the  object  of  his 
tenderness.  He  had  not  seen  her  again,  but  an  image 
of  her,  an  image  which  he  believed  to  be  a  faithful 
portrait,  hung  enshrined  and  lighted  in  the  fresh  swept 
temple  of  his  imagination.  An  immense  sympathy 
flooded  his  heart.  He  longed  for  somebody  to  whom 
he  could  talk  about  Rose.  There  were  times  when  he 
came  very  near  to  confiding  in  the  most  improbable 
persons — Davy  Hamilton,.  Sydney,  even  Mr.  Jackson 
himself.  Then  he  told  Grace,  and  Grace  was  horrid, 
in  the  end  astonishing  him  by  a  deliberate  attack  upon 
the  object  of  his  devotion,  saying  that  if  girls  walked 
about  the  roads  alone  at  such  hours  it  was  because  they 
ivantcd  to  be  spoken  to.  He  was  furious,  forgetting 
that  he  had  at  first  taken  that  view  himself. 

He  called  upon  Mr.  Escott,  who  had  now  left  Myrtle 
Row,  and  was  established  in  a  rectory  of  his  own. 
Unfortunately,  he  found  another  visitor  already  in 
possession,  a  young  man  keenly  interested  in  politics 
and  determined  to  discuss  them.  Richard  sat  on  and 
on,  in  a  room  reeking  with  tobacco  smoke,  but  it  was 
not  till  nearly  eleven  o'clock  that  the  young  man  finally 
settled  the  political  situation  and  took  his  departure. 
And  when  he  had  gone,  it  seemed  to  Richard  ridiculous 
to  try  to  switch  the  conversation  on  to  what  was  occupy- 
ing his  own  mind. 

Mr.  Escott  smiled,  stretched  his  legs,  yawned  :  "  Well, 
Ricky,  and  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?" 


THE  APPRENTICE  125 

Ricky  appeared  to  have  nothing  to  say  for  himself; 
that  was  the  worst  of  it ;  and  the  clergyman  pushed  the 
tobacco  jar  towards  him,  himself  filling  yet  another 
pipe.  It  suddenly  struck  Richard  that  it  was  peculiar 
that  Mr.  Escott  should  not  be  married. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?"  he  asked  abruptly.  "  You 
look  rather  fagged." 

"  No ;  no.  I  am  tired,  but  I  never  go  to  bed  before 
midnight." 

Richard  sat  silent.  "  Politics  seem  so  unim- 
portant compared  with  other  things,"  he  ventured  at 
last. 

Mr.  Escott  was  amused.     "  For  instance  ?" 

"  Well — human  relationships." 

He  got  up  and  began  to  pace  backwards  and  for- 
wards between  the  bookcase  and  the  hearthrug. 

"  Let  us  talk  about  human  relationships  then.  Only  it 
is  your  turn  to  talk  to  me." 

Richard  paused  at  the  bookcase.  "  Do  you  think 
that  women  are  better  than  men  ?" 

"  Quite  as  good,  at  any  rate.  On  the  whole,  perhaps, 
better." 

Richard  blushed.  "  I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal 
about  such  things  lately — I  don't  know  why,"  he 
added. 

"  And  is  that  your  conclusion  ?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  There's  something  about  them  that's — 
higher." 

Mr.  Escott  nodded,  as  if  to  indicate  a  more  or  less 
reserved  assent.  "  Of  course,  such  generalizations  are 
a  little  rash — don't  you  think  ?  Personally,  I  can't  see 
people  except  as  individuals." 

Richard,  apparently,  could  see  the  whole  human  race. 


126    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  This    is    a    general    quality,"    he    declared,    "  — what 
I  refer  to.     And  I've  never  seen  it  in  a  man." 

"You  haven't  told  me  about  it  yet,  you  know,"  Mr. 
Escott  mentioned  sympathetically.  "  I  dare  say  I  shall 
agree  when  I  hear." 

The  boy  turned  to  him  eagerly,  and  his  face  had  a 
wonderful  enthusiasm  and  innocence.  "  It's  something 
strange — and  far;  something  that  reaches  down  from 
another  world  and  brings  a  kind  of  beauty  into  things." 

Mr.  Escott  accepted  this  explanation;  he  was  even 
touched  by  it,  or  by  the  youth  of  the  explainer.  "  A 
good  woman  is  usually  very  good  indeed,"  he  said. 
"  But  there  are  good  men  too.  There  always  have  been, 
always  will  be." 

Richard  looked  at  him  with  dark  eyes  that  saw  only 
their  own  bright  vision.  "  You  know  the  sort  of  beauty 
I  mean — a  kind  of  secret  beauty,  innocent  and  harmless 
and  quiet.  You  know  the  feeling  that  comes  to  you 
sometimes  when  you  are  away  from  everything  ugly  and 
noisy — on  a  summer  afternoon,  above  the  river,  lying  on 
your  back  in  the  grass,  listening,  listening  to  the  birds 
in  the  woods,  watching  the  sunlight  and  feeling  it, 
feeling  it  go  all  through  you — when  everything  seems 
close  to  a  kind  of  dreamland — that  is  the  world  they 
seem  to  belong  to.  A  man  can  only  think  of  it  and 
wonder  about  it,  but  they  are  it." 

"  Are  they  ?"  Mr.  Escott  wondered.  "  Women  are 
intensely  practical,"  he  could  not  help  observing. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  they're  what  I  say 
consciously.  Nothing  that  is  self-conscious  is  really 
beautiful;  nothing  that  isn't  simple  is  beautiful.  Only. 
^/leir  beauty  isn't  an  acquired  thing,  like  a  man's  art. 
It  is  a  part  of  their  being.     You  can't  take  it  from  them. 


THE  APPRENTICE  127 

You  can  bruise  it  and  tear  it  and  trample  it  in  the  mud, 
but  you  can't  take  it  from  them  any  more  than  you  can 
take  its  sweetness  from  a  rose  by  tearing  it  or  trampHng 
it  in  the  mud." 

Mr.  Escott  smiled  again.  "  They  are  certainly  the 
centre  of  the  world,"  he  admitted.  "  Everything  moves 
about  them." 

Richard  nodded  approval.  He  stood  still  before  a 
large  framed  photograph  of  the  Mourning  Demeter. 
"  I  can't  understand  why  there  were  ever  any  male 
gods.    That  is  the  divinity.     The  others,  Apollo  and  the 

rest "     He  shrugged  his  shoulders.    "  Look  at  that 

wretched  thing,  with  its  little  cloak  and  its  pretty  face  !" 

"  That  is  the  Apollo  Belvedere.  You  really  mustn't 
be  rude  to  my  pictures,  Ricky.  I  can't  keep  on 
apologizing  for  them." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  watched  his  visitor, 
a  faint  smile  upon  his  face,  prepared  to  listen,  wonder- 
ing a  little,  yet  understanding,  understanding  much 
better  than  Richard  did.  He  was  not  bored — he,  was 
very  rarely  bored — but  he  had  been  overworking  himself, 
and  all  this  rich,  innocent  romance  of  youth  which  was 
being  poured  into  his  ears,  these  marvellous  discoveries, 
immeasurably  precious,  awakened  echoes  that  made  him 
feel  old  and  disillusioned.  And  he  sat  in  silence,  while 
Richard  talked  with  an  unusual  freedom,  an  enthusiasm 
which  gave  life  and  charm  to  what  he  said — beauty,  too 
— though  it  was  all,  in  a  sense,  fantastic,  perhaps 
absurd. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  Mr.  Escott  closed  the  door 
behind  his  departed  guest,  and  instantly,  like  water  that 
is  sucked  into  dry  sand,  the  floating  waves  of  idealism 
that  had  filled  the  house  disappeared,  and  he  was  left 


128    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

only  with  the  consciousness  that  he  was  extraordinarily 
tired.  As  a  window  behind  which  a  light  is  suddenly 
put  out,  his  face  altered.  "  I  suppose  he  has  fallen,  or 
is  about  to  fall,  in  love,"  he  remarked  pessimistically  to 
the  hatstand.  "  And,  I  suppose,  with  luck,  in  about 
twenty  years  from  now  he  may  be  able  to  get  married. 
What's  going  to  happen  in  the  meantime  we  needn't 
inquire  into.  Well,  '  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to 
sleep  ' — all  round." 

He  turned  out  the  hall  gas  and  began  to  climb  the 
stairs. 


VIII 

With  Richard  a  strong  desire  to  see  Rose  again  began 
to  overshadow  everything  else,  yet  it  never  struck  him 
that  he  might  call  upon  the  Jacksons.  Then  fortune 
played  into  his  hands,  for  Mr.  Jackson,  to  whom  he 
had  become  exceedingly  attentive,  asked  him  to  drop 
in  to  see  them  some  evening  when  he  should  have 
nothing  better  to  do. 

It  was  on  a  Monday  when  this  suggestion  was  made, 
and  that  very  afternoon  Richard  ordered  a  new  suit  of 
clothes.  The  clothes  arrived  home  on  Saturday  morn- 
ing, to  become  forthwith  an  object  of  maternal  specula- 
tion. From  the  label  Mrs.  Seawright  was  able  to  deduce 
that  the  suit  must  have  been  made  to  order — an 
extravagance.  There  were  printed  directions  to  the 
effect  that  the  parcel  should  be  opened  immediately,  and 
these  Mrs.  Seawright  obeyed,  though  subsequently,  after 
discussing  the  point  with  Grace,  she  tied  it  up  again. 

For  two  hours  that  night  Richard  lay  awake, 
enjoying  in  anticipation  the  visit  that  had  been  so  long 
deferred.  His  entrance,  his  first  words  to  Rose,  the 
intimate  conversation  that  was  to  follow,  took  a 
hundred  different  turns,  which,  nevertheless,  one  and  all, 
somehow  led  to  a  mutual  declaration  of  how  much  they 
liad  been  thinking  of  each  other.  Yet  when  Sunday 
aitcrnoon  came  it  was  so  fine  that  he  feared  Rose  would 
have    gone    out    for    a    walk,    and    put    off    his    visit. 

129  9 


130    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

Immediately  tea  was  over  he  set  out.  If  they  should 
be  going  to  church  he  would  catch  them  before  they 
had  started  and  walk  with  her;  if  they  were  not,  he 
could  at  least  stay  longer  than  he  could  have  stayed  in 
the  afternoon. 

As  he  came  within  sight  of  the  house  he  was  seized 
by  a  fit  of  shyness,  and  passed  the  door  without 
knocking  at  it,  but  before  reaching  the  end  of  the  street 
he  turned  back.  He  knocked  rather  gently,  and  no  one 
came.  He  knocked  again,  more  loudly,  and  suddenly 
the  door  was  opened  by  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson  himself, 
dressed  for  going  out,  with  a  silk  hat  on  his  head  and 
a  tightly  rolled  umbrella  in  his  hand.  He  seemed 
surprised  to  see  Richard,  and  they  stood  gazing  at  each 
other  in  silence.  The  bookkeeper  was  the  first  to 
recollect  himself. 

"  Good-evening.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were 
coming?  They're  all  out — just  gone  a  few  minutes 
ago  to  Mrs.  Jackson's  mother's." 

Richard's  face  fell.  "  It  doesn't  matter — I  mean,  Tm 
very  sorry.  I — just  thought  I'd  drop  in  for  a  tew 
minutes." 

"  Even  the  baby  is  out,"  said  Mr.  Jackson,  as  if  to 
complete  the  situation. 

"  I  hope  they're  all  quite  well." 

"  Quite  well,  thanks." 

"  And  Miss  Rose  ?"  he  managed  to  stammer. 

"Oh,  Rose  is  all  right.  We  had  a  letter  from  her 
yesterday." 

"  A  letter  ?" 

"Yes.  From  Liverpool.  She  lives  there  now,  you 
know,  with  her  uncle  and  aunt.  She  has  got  a  position 
as  a  typist  there." 


THE  APPRENTICE  131 

A  gulf  seemed  suddenly  to  have  opened  at  his  feet, 
a  gulf  into  which  he  watched  all  his  cherished  dreams 
drop  heavily,  leaving  the  world  cold  and  void.  "  But 
I  thought — when  you  asked  me  to  call " 

"  She's  been  there  for  several  months,  in  an  office. 
Mrs.  Jackson  didn't  want  her  to  leave  home,  but  Rose 
seemed  to  think  she  would  like  it." 

"  I  see."  He  stood  there  blankly,  as  if  unable  to 
decide  what  to  do. 

"  Well,  I'll  not  ask  you  in,  for  the  fact  is  I'm  just 
going  out  to  a  meeting.  But  I'll  take  you  with  me. 
It  will  interest  you.  You  may  never  have  such  an 
opportunity  again." 

Richard  felt  too  dazed  by  his  disappointment  to  think 
of  making  an  excuse,  and  a  moment  later  found  himself 
walking  down  the  street  beside  the  Swedenborgian.  As 
they  went  Mr.  Jackson  explained  what  the  opportunity 
consisted  in.  It  seemed  principally  to  be  bound  up 
with  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Davis,  from  the  States,  was  at 
present  in  Belfast.  Richard  received  this  thrilling  news 
in  silence,  and  Mr.  Jackson  went  on  to  tell  him  of  a 
remarkable  thing  that  had  occurred  that  morning.  The 
baby,  while  sitting  on  his  knee,  had  suddenly  grasped 
a  pencil  and  begun  to  do  automatic  writing.  They  had 
held  their  breaths.  The  writing  was  difficult  to 
decipher,  but  they  were  making  it  out. 

They  paused  before  a  house  in  the  doorway  of  which 
stood  a  boy  who  smiled  at  them  and  wished  Mr. 
Jackson  "  Good-evening." 

"  Many  here  yet  ?"  the  Swedenborgian  affably 
inquired. 

''  Full  house." 

They  climbed  innumerable  stairs,  and  entered  a  large 


132    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

room  occupying  the  whole  of  the  upper  floor.  It  was 
already  packed  by  an  audience,  who  were  seated  in 
long  rows,  and  so  close  together  that  little  room  was 
left  for  elbows  and  knees.  The  President,  a  person  who 
on  week  days  obviously  exercised  the  profession  of  shop- 
walker, approached  them,  shook  hands  damply,  and 
mentioned  that  Mr.  Jackson  would  find  a  couple  of  seats 
on  the  platform.  He  led  the  way  as  if  the  hosiery 
department  were  situated  in  that  vicinity,  and  Richard 
found  himself  in  an  extremely  prominent  position, 
facing  the  audience.  Through  his  dejection  and  sense 
of  disappointment  his  surroundings  began  to  impress 
themselves  upon  him.  They  were  far  from  beautiful, 
but  they  had  a  quality  of  ugliness  that  was  eminently 
expressive.  The  hard  white  light  pouring  down  from 
the  ceiling  illuminated,  mercilessly,  faces  pale,  tired, 
unhappy.  It  seemed  to  Richard  that  he  had  never  seen 
such  queer-shaped  heads,  such  odd  features,  such  weedy 
or  bulging  forms,  so  many  of  the  stigmata  of  degenera- 
tion, of  unhealthy  living,  unhealthy  parentage.  The 
walls  were  roughly  distempered,  and  above  a  long  row 
of  hats,  coats,  and  umbrellas,  hung  a  large  print  of 
Sir  Joshua's  "  Heads  of  Angels."  The  heat  was  already 
tropical,  but  not  a  window  was  open.  In  the  front  row, 
immediately  facing  him,  sat  a  hook-nosed  man,  soft  and 
pink  and  pulpy,  with  a  white,  silky  beard,  and  pale 
fat  hands  that  moved  about  like  large,  blown-out 
frogs.  He  came  forward  to  speak  to  Mr.  Jackson, 
and  his  voice  and  his  smile  were  soft  too,  ingratiating, 
very  affectionate  One  of  the  soft,  pale  hands 
moved  over  Richard,  brushing  some  dust  from  his 
jacket. 

The  President  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  platform 


THE  APPRENTICE  133 

and    announced     a    hymn,    reading    the    first    verse 
aloud  :  — 

"  Lead,  spirits  bright,  'mid  earth^s  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  ye  me  on  ; 
From  shades  of  night  to  life's  immortal  bloom, 

Lead  ye  me  on  ; 
From  doubts  and  fears,  lead  me  to  light  and  love, 
To  that  blest  home  where  loving  spirits  move." 

A  youth  with  a  sad  face  and  a  weak  mouth  played 
a  few  introductory  bars  on  the  harmonium,  and  the 
congregation  rose  to  its  feet. 

The  meeting  progressed,  very  much  like  an  ordinary 
prayer  meeting,  till  a  huge,  bizarre  figure,  clad  in  brown 
and  green  robes,  rustled  in  from  a  door  at  the  back 
and  took  a  seat  not  far  from  Richard  and  Mr.  Lambert 
Jackson.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  it  must  be  Mrs. 
Davis,  and  presently  she  rose,  standing  in  profile 
against  the  pink  background,  like  a  figure  in  an 
audacious  poster.  Her  large  Jewish  face  was  of  the 
colour  of  old  ivory,  and  terminated  in  a  series  of  chins. 
The  black  eyes  were  hard  and  bright,  the  mouth  square, 
the  expression  somewhat  forbidding,  suggestive  of 
possible  reappearances,  far  from  reassuring,  in  the 
dark.  She  faced  her  congregation,  colossal,  command- 
ing, and  spoke  with  a  strong  American  twang.  Her 
grammar  was  appalling  and  her  voice  cracked,  but  it 
was  apparent  that  she  was  accustomed  to  hold  an 
audience.  She  had  an  individuality,  and  it  seemed  to 
flood  the  room.  She  began  to  talk  first  of  the  healing 
powers  of  spiritualism,  as  recorded  in  the  New 
Testament,  speaking  without  notes,  a  stream  of  dis- 
connected sentences,  usually  foolish,  invariably  vulgar, 
yet  with  something  behind  them  that  fascinated   her 


134    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

listeners — and  every  now  and  again  a  gleam  of 
American  humour  shone  out  incongruously.  With  a 
startling  irrelevance  she  announced  that  she  believed  in 
"  free  love."  " '  Love  one  another,"  she  quoted,  "  but 
remember  that  you  must  love  proper.  When  I  talk  of 
free  love  I  mean  good  love.  That's  what  so  many  men 
mistakes,  and  women.  You  can't  be  a  Christian  unless 
you're  a  spiritualist,  and  you  can't  be  a  spiritualist 
unless  you're  a  Christian.  I  don't  say  there  aren't 
mediums  that  do  wrong.  People  tell  you  that  their 
lost  ones  wouldn't  communicate  through  a  fallen 
medium.  They  say  when  they  see  a  medium  drinking 
in  a  saloon  that  his  messages  aren't  true.  But  I  guess 
that  argument's  about  as  feeble  as  a  chicken  with  heart 
disease.  Here's  the  spirits  thirsting  to  communicate 
with  their  loved  ones,  and  they  see  a  fallen  medium. 
Well,  they  speak  through  him  same  as  if  you  was  dying 
of  thirst  you  would  drink  out  of  a  dirty  cup  that  might 
have  a  germ  in  it.  .  .  ." 

He  wondered  if  he  should  ever  see  Rose  again. 
Probably  she  would  only  come  home  for  a  few  days 
once  or  twice  a  year.  He  felt  a  bitterness  against  life, 
which  seemed  to  offer  tantalizing  visions  of  happiness 
only  to  withdraw  them.  Such  happiness  would  be 
inexpressibly  dear  to  him — and  he  had  had  so  little  of 
it.  Instead,  he  had  this  !  And  he  felt  a  sudden  anger 
against  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson,  who  had  dragged  him 
here,  into  a  hotbed  of  ugliness  and  stupidity. 

Meanwhile  the  discourse  rambled  on,  the  congrega- 
tion drinking  it  in  with  the  greatest  seriousness,  and 
the  meeting  concluding  with  an  example  of  Mrs.  Davis's 
clairvoyant  gifts.  When  it  was  over  everybody  went 
home,  the  people  who  had  been  most  impressed  shaking 


THE  APPRENTICE  135 

hands  with  the  pythoness.  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson  was 
naturally  among  these,  Mrs.  Davis  having  discovered  a 
spirit  behind  his  chair,  which,  after  prolonged  cross- 
examination,  had  revealed  itself  as  that  of  his  wife*s 
father. 

"Very  fine;  very  remarkable,"  he  kept  jubilantly 
repeating  to  Richard  all  the  way  home.  "We  don't 
often  get  such  positive  results.  That,  for  instance,  about 
the  young  man's  brother  who  had  died  of  con- 
sumption— she  couldn't  possibly  have  known  about 
that." 

Richard  drew  away  from  the  hand  Mr.  Jackson  had 
affectionately  laid  upon  his  shoulder.  "  She  could  see 
that  he's  dying  of  it  himself.  Everybody  in  the  room 
could  see  it." 

"  You're  prejudiced,  my  boy.  I  consider  that  when 
the  young  man  asked  her  what  his  brother  had  died 
of  it  was  a  test  question — a  test  question."  He  chuckled 
amazingly. 

"Oh,  you're  mad!"  Richard  murmured  to  himself; 
and  only  the  thought  of  Rose  prevented  him  from  saying 
it  aloud. 

When  he  reached  home  he  found  his  mother  and 
Grace  sitting  in  the  kitchen,  Grace  reading  aloud  from 
Dean  Farrar's  "  Life  of  Christ,"  and  Mrs.  Seawright 
palpably  dozing.  He  listened  to  the  girl's  beautiful 
voice,  and  thought  of  Rose.  He  was  interrupted  by  a 
sound  of  somebody  rattling  at  the  hall-door. 

"  That'll  be  Martin,"  Mrs.  Seawright  exclaimed,  start- 
ing into  wakefulness.  "  The  latch  must  have  slipped. 
You'd  better  go,  Richard." 

He  was  about  to  do  so  when  they  heard  the  door 
open,  and  then  shut  with  a  bang.     There  was  a  noise 


136    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

as  of  somebody  knocking  against  the  hatstand,  and 
next  moment  the  kitchen  door  was  flung  wide.  Martin 
stood  there,  with  one  hand  on  the  door-post,  steadying 
himself,  extraordinarily  white. 

"Thought— all  in  bed,"  he  said  foolishly.  "Wha' 
time  is't?"  He  took  a  step  forward,  and  lurched 
violently  against  the  table. 

Richard  had  sprung  to  his  feet.  "  Come  on,"  he  said 
quietly,  catching  him  by  the  arm.  He  led  him  from 
the  room  and  up  to  their  bedroom,  Martin  offering  no 
resistance. 

"Why  did  you  come  in  like  this?"  Richard  asked. 
"You  might  have  gone  straight  upstairs." 

"  Upstairs  ?"  Martin  echoed  uncomprehendingly.  He 
sat  down  on  the  bed,  and  was  suddenly  and  violently 
ill.  This  last  calamity  appeared  to  deprive  him  of  all 
power  over  his  limbs.  With  glazed  eyes  he  stared  about 
him,  already  half  unconscious.  "  Awfly  sorry,"  he 
murmured.  "  All  right  in  the  mornin'.  Don'  say 
anythin*  about  it.  It's  Charlie's  fault.  Charlie's  full  as 
a  bat.     That  fellow's  goin'  to  hell." 

Richard  helped  him  to  undress,  and  got  him  to  bed. 
Long  before  he  had  cleaned  up  the  room  Martin  was 
snoring  heavily. 

He  went  downstairs  to  the  two  women,  who  were 
sitting  just  as  he  had  left  them,  save  that  Dean  Farrar 
had  been  put  away.  In  Mrs.  Seawright's  white  face, 
in  her  eyes,  there  was  a  look  that  Richard  had  never 
seen  there  before,  not  even  on  the  day  of  Martin's 
accident.  Grace  slipped  quietly  from  the  room.  He 
could  not  meet  his  mother's  gaze,  but  sat  down  in  silence 
at  the  supper  table.  The  silence  continued  until  he  had 
finished  his  porridge. 


THE  APPRENTICE  137 

"  Is  he  all  right  now  ?"  Mrs.  Seawright  asked  at 
length,  speaking  in  a  cold,  level  voice. 

"  Yes ;  he's  asleep." 

The  mother  said  nothing  further,  and  the  silence  grew 
oppressive,  charged  with  all  the  tragic  thoughts  that 
he  knew  were  passing  through  her  mind.  Again  he 
glanced  at  her.  Her  head  was  now  a  little  bowed,  her 
hands  folded  in  her  lap.  Then  he  jumped  up  from  his 
chair,  and  came  over  to  where  Grace  had  been  sitting. 
"  Mother,  it  doesn't  mean  anything,"  he  said  in  a  tone 
of  entreaty.  "  Don't  think  about  it.  The  way  you  look 
at  it  is  all  wrong.  He'll  be  better  in  the  morning.  And 
it  doesn't  mean  anything.  I'm  telling  you  the  truth. 
It's  not  half  as  bad  as  if  you  had  found  him  doing  some 
mean  little  thing,  and  you  think  it's  worse.  You  mustn't 
mind ;  you  mustn't  mind."  He  knelt  down  and  pressed 
his  cheek  against  hers. 

"  Why  do  you  say  I  mustn't  mind  ?"  she  asked 
sternly.  "  Am  I  not  to  mind  when  I  see  my  son  bring 
himself  lower  than  the  beasts ;  come  home  like  that— on 
the  Lord's  day  ?" 

"  You  mustn't ;  you  mustn't,"  he  whispered  helplessly. 
"If  only  you  would  understand  !" 


PART   THIRD 

ROSE 


1 

The  image  of  Rose  began  to  fade  from  his  mind,  and 
when  one  day,  a  few  months  later,  Mr.  Jackson  men- 
tioned her  name,  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  it 
awakened  in  him  but  a  languid  interest.  At  a  year's 
end  she  was  little  more  than  a  shadow;  practically  he 
had  forgotten  her. 

His  life  was  now  the  monotonous,  colourless  life  of  the 
industrious  young  clerk,  who  is  rather  bookish.  His 
industriousness  was  recognized,  and  when,  in  his 
twenty-first  year,  he  came  out  of  his  time,  he  was 
appointed  assistant  to  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson  at  a  salary 
of  eighty  pounds  a  year.  Three  times  during  the  next 
three  years  his  salary  was  raised,  and  Mrs.  Wilberforce 
learned  from  his  mother  that  he  was  doing  very  well — 
though  not  so  well  as  Martin,  who  had  been  unusually 
lucky. 

The  history  of  these  years  was  almost  entirely  the 
history  of  his  education.  He  read  systematically — at 
the  beginning  largely  under  Mr.  Escott's  guidance. 
There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  simple  diligence 
with  which  he  made  use  of  those  scanty  opportunities 
that  are  all  a  provincial  town  can  offer  to  a  youth  of 
liis  class  for  becoming  acquainted  with  what  is  being 
done,  in  the  outer  world,  in  art,  in  literature,  in  music; 
but  neither  art  nor  literature  nor  music  sufficed  to  make 
him  happy.  There  was  something  else  required,  some 
key  to  be  turned,  before  he  could  find  any  fullness  of 

140 


ROSE  141 

enjoyment  in  beauty.  He  was  like  a  slave  who  listens 
to  the  sound  of  violins,  and  watches  the  grace  of  dancing 
girls,  through  the  pain  of  an  ever-gnawing  passion  for 
freedom,  a  nostalgia  for  tropic  suns  and  waving  palm- 
trees  and  the  dusky  skins  of  his  old  playmates. 

Once  he  went  for  a  holiday  to  London.  He  went 
alone,  and  it  is  significant  that  the  most  vivid  impres- 
sion stamped  upon  his  mind  during  this  visit  was 
perhaps  that  of  the  stony  masks  presented  by  the  won- 
derful ladies  he  had  seen  coming  out  from  the  opera. 
He  hated  them,  yet  they  fascinated  him.  He  was 
indifferent  to  the  men;  it  was  the  women  whom  he 
watched  as  they  drove  by.  He  marvelled  at  their  lack 
of  individual  expression.  There  had  been  two  or  three 
who  had  looked,  as  they  sat  staring  straight  past  him, 
or  through  him,  like  painted  idols.  He  conceived  the 
idea  that  they  were  intensely  callous,  self-confident,  and 
dead  to  all  the  finer  meanings  of  things.  Yet  in  Hyde 
Park,  listening  to  the  coarse  rant  of  semi-educated  free- 
thinkers and  socialists,  his  democratic  sympathies  dried 
up.  What  he  saw  among  all  classes  alike  was  spiritual 
deadness,  and  unintelligence.  He  saw  it  in  the  rush 
and  noise  of  the  streets  and  the  tubes,  in  the  feverish 
ingenuity  of  commercial  competition,  in  the  pale,  tired 
faces  of  clerks  like  himself,  coming  home  from  their 
work,  in  the  glittering  advertisements  of  theatres  and 
music-halls,  in  the  sodden  hopelessness  of  the  sub- 
merged. The  whole  monstrous  city  gave  him  an  im- 
pression of  desolation.  The  life  was  the  swarming 
noisome  life  of  a  corpse,  out  of  which  gleamed  the 
white  bones  of  death.  Death  leered  in  the  smile  of 
a  painted  girl  who  stared  into  his  face  with  hard  bright 
eyes,  and  an  unaccountable  fear  came  upon  him. 


142    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

He  felt  it  most  keenly  at  the  end  of  one  hot  intermin- 
able day  when,  instead  of  going  to  a  theatre  or  a  con- 
cert, he  wandered  about  in  the  open  air.  He  passed  in 
the  falling  dusk  through  the  Park,  which,  as  the  dark- 
ness gathered,  had  become  beautiful  and  sad.  The 
moon  shone  down  softly  between  the  trees,  and  the  dim 
strange  light  through  which  he  moved  seemed  to  isolate 
him  from  the  world  that  discouraged  and  bewildered 
him.  The  darkness  deepened  rapidly,  and  the  embraces 
of  neighbouring  lovers  ceased  to  be  obtrusive,  became 
dim,  remote,  as  in  a  picture  by  Carriere.  The  tall 
lamps,  haloed  by  a  hovering  swarm  of  winged  insects, 
cast  broad  pools  of  purplish  light  upon  the  worn,  faded 
grass;  and  through  the  delicate  greyness  of  the  trees 
came  the  flash  of  endless  vehicles.  The  muffled  roar  of 
traffic  sounded  almost  on  a  single  humming  note,  save 
when  this  was  torn  across  by  the  scream  of  an  auto- 
mobile. The  air,  soft  as  velvet,  warm  and  stagnant, 
steeped  the  whole  world  in  a  kind  of  tropical  languor. 

He  passed  out  through  the  gates,  walking  slowly, 
almost  at  random,  by  tall,  brilliantly-lighted  windows 
that  were  opened  wide  to  the  night,  and  presently  he 
found  himself  in  Leicester  Square.  It  was  then  that  the 
sense  of  an  undefined  terror  suddenly  grew  strong,  beat- 
ing down  the  barriers  of  common-sense  and  reason.  The 
very  aspect  of  unreality  and  futility  that  glittered  over 
the  surface  of  things  seemed  to  mock  at  him  with  the 
elusive  and  meaningless  horror  of  a  dream.  He  leaned 
against  the  railings  ^ixQ  closed  his  eyes.  By  an  effort  of 
will  he  called  up  a  scene  that  was  most  opposed  to  all  that 
now  glared  and  flamed  upon  his  senses — a  bare  hill-side 
under  the  moon,  with  dark  woods  below,  stretching 
down  to  a  lonely  sea.     As  he  called  to  it  it  responded 


ROSE  143 

straightway,  rising  within  his  mmd  again,  just  as  it 
had  been — the  faint  rustle  of  wind,  the  smell  of  heather, 
the  black  curved  vault  of  the  open  sky,  vast  and 
infinitely  still — bringing  him  back  to  sanity  and  peace. 
He  returned  home  three  days  before  his  leave  was  up. 


II 

One  morning  Mr.  Jackson  told  him  that  Rose  had 
come  back.  The  Liverpool  uncle,  who  was  in  a  bank, 
had  been  promoted,  it  appeared,  to  the  managership  of  a 
new  country  branch,  which  meant,  of  course,  that  his 
family  would  go  with  him.  "  Rose  is  looking  out  for  a 
situation  at  home,"  he  added,  and  then  proposed,  as 
he  had  so  often  proposed  before,  that  Richard  should 
pay  them  a  visit.  These  vague  invitations,  equally 
vaguely  accepted,  occurred  with  a  frequency  that  some- 
times made  him  wonder  if  Mr.  Jackson  were  really 
unaware  that  he  had  never  been  to  the  house  except  on 
that  single  occasion,  long  ago,  when  the  Swedenborgian 
had  received  him  on  the  door-step. 

Again  an  interval  of  several  months  elapsed,  and  it 
was  on  an  evening  in  October  that  Mr.  Jackson  sud- 
denly surprised  him  by  a  definite  invitation  to  tea,  and 
for  that  very  night.  He  would  have  refused,  had  it  not 
seemed  simpler  to  accept  and  get  the  matter  over. 

Lambert  was  most  friendly  and  confidential  as  they 
walked  home  together  in  the  soundless  autumn  dusk, 
tor  that  matter,  he  was  always  confidential,  but  this 
evening  he  had  more  than  usual  to  impart.  It  appeared 
that  the  house  in  Palermo  Street  was  at  present  the 
scene  of  an  amazing  spiritual  activity.  Mysterious 
letters  arrived  there  by  no  earthly  post  (Mr.  Lambert 
Jackson  had  himself  detected  one  fluttering  down  from 
the  ceiling),  letters  conveying  messages  of  comfort  and 

144 


ROSE  145 

exhortation,  written,  some  in  hieroglyphs,  some  in 
ordinary  characters.  He  instantly  produced  a  couple 
from  his  breast-pocket,  like  a  conjuring  trick,  and 
Richard  inspected  them  under  a  street  lamp. 

The  angelic  correspondent  wrote  an  unformed,  school- 
boy hand.  He  had  made  use  of  this,  however,  to 
convey  to  Mr.  Jackson  the  assurance  that  he  was  sur- 
rounded day  and  night  by  beneficent  powers.  That 
happy  child  of  light  stuffed  the  letters  back  into  his 
pocket  with  a  little,  gleeful  laugh.  Richard  laughed 
too,  but  it  struck  him  that  matters  were  beginning  to  go 
rather  far.  These  letters  were  not  the  only  manifesta- 
tions, Mr.  Jackson  explained,  though  they  were,  on  the 
whole,  the  most  satisfactory.  One  evening  last  week  a 
lump  of  coal  had  come  flying  through  his  study  window 
while  he  was  at  work  there.  Also  Everard,  the  eldest 
boy,  had  been  discovered  lying  on  the  dining-room 
floor,  held  down  by  invisible  hands.  On  another  occa- 
sion, when  coming  into  the  house,  his  strap  of  school- 
books  had  been  snatched  from  him,  and  whisked  away 
no  one  knew  whither.  It  was  not  till  four  days  later 
that  Mrs.  Jackson,  treading  on  a  loose  board  in  the 
landing,  had  found  them  underneath  it. 

"  Things  seem  to  settle  principally  about  Everard," 
Mr.  Jackson  added  thoughtfully.  "  He  is  extraordin- 
arily psychic." 

His  white  teeth  glittered  through  his  pale,  scanty 
moustache,  and  he  rubbed  his  immense  bony  hands 
together  as  he  moved  on  with  rapid  strides.  His 
hat,  pushed  back,  revealed  his  high,  white  forehead ;  his 
flaxen  beard  streamed  down  over  his  waistcoat;  and 
he  presented,  with  his  flapping,  flying  coat,  an  appear- 
ance of   some   great   spindle-legged   bird,   who   would 

10 


146    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

presently  spread  its  grey  wings  and  disappear  over 
the  chimney-tops. 

"  I  shall  have  an  account  of  Everard's  case — of  course 
omitting  the  names — in  next  month's  Algol"  he  con- 
cluded. 

Richard  looked  at  him  helplessly.     "Algol!'* 

"  The  new  psychological  magazine.  I  strongly 
advise  you  to  take  it  in.  Last  month  there  was  a  most 
brilliant  article  on  the  personality  of  Katie  King." 

Richard  said  nothing,  and  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson 
fumbled  with  his  latch-key,  for  they  had  now  reached 
the  house.  At  the  same  moment  the  door  was  opened 
from  the  inside.  ...     It  was  Rose. 

Richard,  standing  on  the  lower  step,  met  her  eyes 
over  her  father's  shoulder.  She  smiled.  The  interval 
that  had  elapsed  since  their  last  meeting  seemed  to 
slip  away  like  a  mist,  and  while  Lambert  accomplished 
a  vague  form  of  introduction,  which  consisted  princi- 
pally in  a  waving  of  his  right  hand,  Richard  felt  the 
old  mysterious  attraction  stirring,  trembling,  unfolding, 
like  a  seed  under  the  moist  warm  breath  of  spring. 

"  We've  met  before,  I  think — haven't  we  ?"  he  said, 
and  Rose  suddenly  blushed.  Then  he  knew  that  she 
remembered  him. 

Mr.    Lambert    Jackson    received    the    announcement 

dreamily.      "Met    before "    he    murmured,    with    a 

large,  mild  beneficence,  and  speaking  as  if  the  meeting 
must  have  taken  place  in  some  pre-natal  existence. 
With  a  friendly  grip  on  Richard's  shoulder  he  pushed 
him  across  the  threshold,  and  in  the  same  manner 
guided  him  on  into  the  parlour,  where  tea  was  laid,  and 
where  the  rest  of  the  family  were  assembled,  the 
youngest    child    chnging    to    his    mother's    voluminous 


ROSE  147 

skirts.  This  lady  held  out  a  fat,  dubious  hand  covered 
with  cheap  rings.  As  she  smiled  her  tiny  black  eyes 
almost  disappeared  in  her  large  face,  and  he  thought  he 
had  never  seen  anyone  who  presented  such  an  appear- 
ance of  bulging  and  breaking  out,  of  unfastened  hooks, 
of  gaping  spaces  and  sudden  tightnesses.  She  had  an 
air,  though  it  was  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  of  not 
having  yet  had  time  to  dress,  and  her  grey  and  black 
hair,  escaping  in  greasy  wisps  from  a  loose  forest  of 
hairpins,  threatened  visibly  at  every  moment  to  come 
down.  Her  feet  slithered  over  the  floor  in  loose  slippers, 
and  her  left  hand  clutched  frequently,  now  at  her  hair, 
now  at  the  bosom  of  her  bodice,  now  at  the  back  of  her 
skirt,  as  one  habituated  to  the  insecurity  of  fastenings. 
Richard  was  certain  that  she  appeared  at  breakfast  in 
a  dressing-gown  with  stains  down  the  front,  just  as  he 
was  sure  that  the  band  of  coffee-coloured  lace  beneath 
her  many  chins  marked  the  line  where  all  application  of 
soap  and  water  ceased.  She  welcomed  him  in  a.  fat, 
hoarse  voice,  like  an  exaggerated  whisper,  broken  by 
shrill  sibilant  notes,  introducing  him  to  Holly  and  Ivy 
Jackson,  two  anaemic  girls  with  the  protruding  teeth  of 
their  father,  and  to  Everard  Jackson,  an  unwholesome- 
looking  boy  of  fifteen,  and  to  Baby  Jackson,  a  late  and 
unexpected  arrival,  who  refused  to  shake  hands. 

Suddenly,  amid  the  smiles  and  preoccupation  of  these 
greetings,  a  protesting  and  piercing  howl  rent  the  air. 
It  came  from  Baby,  and  Baby's  tearful  explanation, 
"  Pinced  me ;  pinced  me,"  was  almost  lost  in  Mr.  Jack- 
son's undisguised  jubilation  at  the  visitor's  receiving  so 
prompt  and  remarkable  a  proof  of  the  angelical 
invasion. 

To  Baby  it  had  been  a  little  too  convincing.     "  There, 


148    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

there,  darling !  Who  pinched  you  ?"  Mrs.  Jackson 
wheezed,  clasping  the  unhappy  infant  to  an  ample  and 
swaying  bosom.  "  There,  it's  better  now.  Tell  mammy 
to  kiss  the  place." 

But  the  place,  as  innocently  indicated  by  Baby,  was 
not  one  suitable  for  kissing,  and  Mrs.  Jackson  merely 
clasped  him  to  her  heart  again.  "  Indeed,  it's  getting 
a  perfect  nuisance !"  she  said,  "  and  it's  very  queer  that 
nothing  ever  happens  except  when  Everard's  around!" 
She  turned  to  Richard.  "  I  suppose  Mr.  Jackson  has 
told  you  about  all  these  goings-on  ?  Everard !  put 
back  that  cake  this  instant  minute!" 

Everard  replaced  a  cake  which,  in  the  agitation  of 
the  moment,  he  had  transferred  from  the  silver  basket 
to  his  own  pocket.  He  smiled  sheepishly,  glancing  at 
the  visitor,  with  small  light-coloured  eyes  under  which 
were  deep  violet  shadows.  They  sat  down  at  the 
table. 

Mrs.  Jackson's  expostulation  appeared  to  have  the 
effect  of  preventing  further  celestial  activity,  at  least 
during  tea,  a  respite  obviously  regretted  by  Lambert, 
whose  pale,  dreamy  gaze  kept  wandering  expectantly 
to  the  ceiling.  Holly  and  Ivy  sat  in  silence,  except 
when  they  whispered  admonitions  to  their  brother.  "  Oh, 
Ev,  how  can  you  be  so  greedy  !  Ev,  you're  taking  all 
the  cream!  Ev,  nobody  else  has  had  any  cake  yet!" 
Richard  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  was  suspected 
of  not  doing  justice  to  the  preparations  that  had  been 
made  for  him.  But  the  aspect  of  the  entire  family,  witli 
the  exception  of  Rose,  was  somehow  unappetizing.  He 
had  a  vision  of  things  having  been  touched  by  fingers 
not  scrupulously  clean.  And  the  pimples  of  Everard, 
and  Mrs.  Jackson's  dirty  though  jewelled  hands,  and 


ROSE  149 

the  jammy  cheeks  of  Baby,  were  all  very  much  in 
evidence.  He  was  certain  that  the  hands  that  had 
braided  Mrs.  Jackson's  hair  would  not  have  been  washed 
before  making  the  toast  or  cutting  the  bread  and  butter. 
He  could  only  hope  that  Rose  had  attended  to  these 
duties. 

The  girl  seemed  to  him  oddly  out  of  place  there. 
She  was  exquisitely,  adorably  pretty.  She  was  Kght 
and  slender,  with  a  graceful,  rounded  figure ;  her  wrists, 
her  hands,  very  small;  her  ears  like  the  petals  of  a 
flower.  But  it  was  principally  her  expression  that 
charmed  him,  her  expression  which  meant  nothing  and 
yet  meant  everything,  which  was  all  gentleness  and 
sweetness.  He  hated  to  see  her  surrounded  by  this  appal- 
ling family  of  whose  shortcomings  she  appeared  to  be 
unconscious,  entering  into  their  humour,  laughing,  say- 
ing things  herself  that  were  far,  very  far,  from  brilliant. 

After  tea  he  was  dragged  to  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson's 
sanctum,  where  he  listened  to  a  long  description  of  the 
joys  of  the  mystic  way.  The  high-pitched  voice  rose 
and  fell  in  an  endless  monologue,  while  Richard,  who 
knew  that  it  was  useless  to  interrupt,  moved  about  the 
room,  bored,  impatient,  scanning  the  foolish,  pretentious 
titles  of  the  books,  and  wondering  when  he  could  make 
his  escape.  He  had  the  privilege  of  a  peep  at  the 
unfinished  commentary  upon  the  writings  of  Swenden- 
borg  that  was  to  be  Mr.  Jackson's  magnum  opus,  and 
of  which  the  small,  published  volume  was  but  a  pre- 
liminary sketch.  There  was  already  an  enormous  pile 
of  manuscript,  though  Mr.  Jackson  was  only  at  chapter 
twenty.  He  had  begun  to  read  aloud  from  chapter 
nineteen,  when  Mrs.  Jackson's  voice  rose  from  the  hall. 
"  Aren't  you  ever  coming  down,  Lambert  ?" 


ISO    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  we're  just  coming." 

During  their  absence  from  the  parlour  all  traces  of 

the    recent    festivities    had    been    removed.     "  Rose    is 

putting  Baby  to  bed;  she'll  be  down  in  a  minute  or 

two,"  Mrs.  Jackson  said  to  Richard.      "  Holly  and  Ivy 

Jackson,  you  might  play  something  to  Mr.  Seawright." 

Holly  and   Ivy  giggled  a  little,  but  complied  with 

this  request.       They   played   a  duet,   while   the  brass 

candlesticks,  and  the  numerous  little  photograph-frames 

on  the  top  of  the  piano,  rattled  a  cheery  accompaniment. 

Rose  entered.     She  stood  in  the  doorway  a  moment, 

smiling,  then  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down,  folding 

her   hands   in   her  lap   and   keeping   her   face   slightly 

averted  from  the  visitor  till  the  duet  was  finished. 

Mrs.  Jackson  wanted  them  to  play  another,  but  Ivy 
refused.  "  It's  too  painful.  Holly  keeps  sticking  her 
nails  into  me  every  minute." 

"  I  can't  help  it  if  you  won't  take  your  fingers  off  the 
notes  in  time." 

Everard  was  leaning  over  the  back  of  Rose's  chair, 
and  whispering  into  her  ear.  She  laughed — a  little 
affectedly,  Richard  thought.  He  repressed  an  inclina- 
tion to  catch  the  brother  by  the  back  of  his  neck. 

"Everard  Jackson,  remember  your  manners!"  his 
mother  said  hoarsely,  while  Rose  got  up  to  carry  out 
her  share  of  the  entertainment. 

As  she  played  she  was  conscious  of  the  dark 
absorbed  gaze  of  this  strange  silent  youth — their 
guest — which  never  left  her  face.  Yet  at  the  end, 
through  the  family  applause,  his  approbation  sounded 
half-hearted  and  perfunctory.  She  felt  piqued;  then 
concluded  that  he  did  not  care  for  music.  Meanwhile 
Mrs.  Jackson,  who  found  the  visitor  distinctly  difficult 


ROSE  151 

to  talk  to,  urged,  as  in  the  case  of  Holly  and  Ivy,  an 
encore.  Rose  turned  to  him  half  pouting  through  her 
smile.     "  You  don't  like  music,  do  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  Grace  Mallow,  who  lives  with 
us,  plays  a  good  deal." 

Rose's  pique  was  revived.  "  I  expect  my  playing 
sounds  very  poor  after  Miss  Mallow's." 

"  She  plays  very  well." 

Holly  laughed  unpleasantly.  "  That's  one  for  you, 
Rose."  It  was  evident  that  he  had  offended  the 
family  pride. 

Richard  flushed.  "  1  know  nothing  about  music,"  he 
answered  shortly.     "  I  like  Grace's  playing,  that  is  all." 

He  caught  Everard's  quick  eyes  fixed  upon  him 
ironically,  and  Holly,  who  seemed  to  take  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  his  discomfiture,  went  on.  "  I  suppose  we 
needn't  ask  you  what  you  think  of  our  playing  then,  if 
you  don't  even  like  Rose's." 

His  face  darkened.     "No,  it  isn't  necessary." 
"  Holly,  don't  be  pert.     Don't  take  any  notice  of  her, 
Mr.  Seawright,"  Mrs.  Jackson  wheezed,  good-naturedly. 

But  he  felt  that  they  had  all  taken  a  dislike  to  him, 
and  his  anger  increased.  Fortunately  at  that  moment 
an  interruption  occurred  in  the  form  of  a  loud  knocking 
at  the  hall-door. 

"  Ev,  you  go,"  said  Rose,  eagerly.  "  It's  the 
McVintys." 

Everard  disappeared,  returning  straightway  with  the 
new  guests,  who  entered  hilariously.  Prolonged  and 
detailed  introductions  followed  between  Mr.  Seawright 
and  Miss  and  Mr.  McVinty,  and  Mr.  Sprott.  "Very 
pleased  to  meet  you."  "  Very  pleased  to  meet  you." 
The  little  party  now  became  a  good  deal  brighter. 


152    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

though  Mrs.  Jackson's  efforts  to  draw  the  pecuHar  youth 
that  her  husband — and  Rose — had  seen  fit  to  invite, 
into  its  genial  circle,  proved  unsuccessful.  So  far  as 
he  was  concerned,  gaiety  appeared  to  be  anything  but 
"  infectious " ;  and  it  was  obvious  that  he  was  still 
brooding  over  Holly's  attack.  He  stood  stiffly  apart, 
on  his  face  that  dark,  sulky  expression  which  had  been 
his  mother's  despair  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  Rose 
thought  he  looked  wonderfully  handsome. 

"  I  say.  Rose,  let's  play  that  guessing  game  we  played 
at  the  Smiths',"  Mr.  McVinty  suggested.  "You  and 
I'll  go  out  first."  He  had  a  red  face,  red  hair,  and  a 
huge  red  moustache.  His  jovial  manner  seemed  to  fill 
the  room,  and  completely  overshadowed  the  quieter 
charm  of  Mr.  Sprott. 

Rose  knew  perfectly  well  what,  for  Mr.  McVinty, 
constituted  the  attraction  of  the  "  guessing  game,"  and 
at  the  Smiths'  she  had  been  willing  enough  to  go  out 
of  the  room  with  him.  To-night  she  only  laughed  and 
shook  her  head.  "  I  want  to  talk  to  Mr.  Seawright.  .  . 
You  others  can  play.  Don't  bother  about  us,  and  don't 
try  to  listen  to  what  we're  saying,  because  we've  got 
secrets." 

"Oh,  I  say,"  protested  Mr.  Sprott.  "Secrets! 
That's  against  all  rules,  you  know ! " 

But  Rose  had  sat  down  beside  Richard,  and  Mr. 
McVinty  was  obliged  to  retire  with  Ivy. 

"You  hate  all  this,  don't  you?"  Rose  said  softly, 
when  the  "  guessing  game "  was  in  full  swing.  "  I 
wouldn't  have  allowed  mother  to  invite  them  if  I  had 
known."  She  paused.  She  herself  had  invited  them, 
but  it  seemed  better  to  put  it  in  this  way. 

"  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  have  allowed  me  to  be  invited 


ROSE  153 

if  you  had  known,"  he  answered,  with  an  attempted 
Hghtness  that  failed  signally  to  come  off.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  be  light  and  at  the  same  time  conscious  of  an 
almost  passionate  hatred  for  Mr.  McVinty,  Miss 
McVinty,  Mr.  Sprott,  Holly,  Ivy,  and  Everard. 

"  I  know  you're  not  enjoying  yourself.  Why  should 
you,  indeed  !" 

"  I'm  enjoying  myself  now,"  he  answered. 

"Really?  I  don't  bore  you?"  She  smiled  softly, 
and  with  a  little  glance  of  astonishment  in  her  dark 
blue  eyes. 

That  deep  dark  blue  seemed  more  beautiful  than 
anything  he  had  ever  seen.  He  faltered — the  words 
that  he  would  have  liked  to  say  being  quite  impossible. 
What  he  felt  was  a  very  simple  desire  to  clasp  her  in 
his  arms.  "  It's  my  fault,"  he  said  huskily.  "  I'm  no 
use  at  this  kind  of  thing — games  and  all  that." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  strange,  sad  gravity 
that  made  her  think  of  a  retriever — some  kind  of  large 
dog  anyway;  and  she  had  an  impulse  to  stroke  the 
thick  lustreless  black  hair  that  tumbled  over  his  beau- 
tiful forehead.  His  beauty,  his  shapeliness  and  strength, 
were  vividly  present  to  her,  and  were  far  more  eloquent 
than  those  impassioned  conversations  which  in  the  old 
days,  in  imagination,  he  had  conducted  so  brilliantly. 
But  he  did  not  know  this,  and  was  envious  of  the  social 
talent  of  Mr.  McVinty,  that  was  at  present  convulsing 
the  room  with  laughter. 

Rose,  with  perhaps  rather  doubtful  wisdom,  returned 
to  the  subject  of  Grace  Mallow.  "  Don't  mind  what 
Holly  said.  It  was  only  nonsense.  She  didn't  mean 
anything.  I  would  love  to  hear  Miss  Mallow 
play." 


154    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

He  was  intensely  grateful.  "  You  must.  She's  going 
to  play  at  a  concert  next  month — the  second  Phil- 
harmonic concert.  It  will  be  her  first  appearance  in 
public,  and  she  is  nervous  already — though  it  won't 
matter  when  the  time  comes." 

"  Won't  it  ?     How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  know,"  he  smiled,  "  but  I  do. 
She's  got  courage — any  amount  of  it;  and  her  nervous- 
ness will  help  her.  .  .  .  When  you're  like  Grace  it 
does." 

"And  are  you  like  her?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "  You  can  see  that  for 
yourself." 

"  But  you  have  courage  ?" 

"  Not  that  kind ;  not  such  a  good  kind.  Hers  is  the 
sort  that  keeps  her  from  ever  giving  in;  it  has  nothing 
to  do  with  being  excited  or  angry.  Anything  she  wants 
to  do  she  will  do;  anything  she  wants  to  get  she  will 
get." 

"  She  must  be  very  fortunate.  I'm  sure  I  should  die 
of  fright  if  I  had  to  play  at  a  concert.  Is  she  a  relation 
of  yours  ?" 

"  No,  only  a  great  friend.  When  her  father  and 
mother  died  she  was  left  quite  alone,  so  she  came  to 
live  with  us.  But  that  was  long  ago.  Grace  is  really 
rather  wonderful.  She  has  done  what  she  wanted  to 
do  from  the  very  beginning,  and  without  ever  having 
had  a  row  or  a  fuss,  the  way  I've  had.  You  could  only 
know  what  that  means  if  you  knew  my  mother.  My 
mother  is  very  kind  and  very,  very  good,  but  she  has 
her  own  way  of  looking  at  things,  which  isn't  at  all 
Grace's — and  she's  tremendously  strong.'* 


ROSE  155 

Rose  had  a  fleeting  vision  of  a  person  she  shouldn't 
like  at  all,  and  her  eyes  rested  thankfully  on  her  own 
unexacting,  her  bulging  and  unhooked,  parent.  "I 
want  to  know  her  so  much  ! "  she  said. 

"  Who  ?     My  mother  ?" 

"Yes;  and  Miss  Mallow." 

"  Well,  that  can  be  easily  arranged." 

Rose  hesitated.  "  Won't  you  come  and  talk  to  the 
others  ?  Mr.  McVinty's  great  fun.  He  travels  for 
Anderson  and  Ritchie's.  They'll  think  it  strange  if  we 
sit  here  together  all  the  time,  and  Carry  McVinty  will 
go  round  talking — she's  awful  that  way." 

"  Would  it  matter  if  I  went  home  ?  Would  it  be 
rude?" 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  surprise,  and  then 
suddenly  laughed.  "  I'll  never  ask  you  to  a  party 
again — though  of  course  this  isn't  a  party,"  she  hastily 
added.     "  You  can  go  if  you  want  to." 

"  But  shall  I  see  you  again  somewhere  ?" 

"  Perhaps I'll  think.  ...     I  sometimes  go  to  the 

*  pictures.' "  Suddenly  she  faced  him  with  a  rather 
tremulous  smile  and  with  a  heightened  colour.  "  The 
last  time  we  met — do  you  remember  ? — you  were  a  little 
frightened  of  me." 

He  stammered  a  reply. 

"  You    didn't    like    my    speaking    to    you    without 

being     introduced.     You  thought What  did  you 

think  ?" 

He  looked  so  distressed  that  she  repented,  and  her 
hand  for  a  moment  rested  lightly  on  his  sleeve.  "It 
doesn't  matter." 

"  I  wondered  who  you  were,  that  is  all." 


156    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Well,  if  you  really  want  to  go  you'd  better  slip  out 
now.     Nobody's  looking." 

He  gazed  at  her  apprehensively.  "  But  I  must  say 
good-night  to  your  mother,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  you  have  courage !"  she  gently  mocked  him. 


Ill 

If  on  that  Friday,  towards  the  end  of  November,  which 
was  the  day  of  Grace's  concert,  he  arrived  home  half  an 
hour  later  than  usual,  it  was  really  Rose's  fault,  though 
this  was  not  the  excuse  he  gave  his  mother. 

"  There's  plenty  of  time.     Martin  isn't  here  yet." 

"  Martin  isn't  going  to  be  here ;  he's  to  meet  us  at  the 
hall." 

He  looked  at  Grace,  who  sat  crumbling  a  slice  of 
toast.     "  You'd  better  eat  something,"  he  said. 

She  took  no  notice,  except  to  smile  quietly. 

"  Did  you  give  Bessie  a  ticket  ?" 

"  I  gave  her  two." 

"  You  don't  feel  nervous,  do  you  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  don't 
feel  anything  except  that  most  people  are  bored  by 
Brahms;  but  I  feel  that  rather  intensely." 

"  Not  by  the  Waltzesr 

"  Well,  you've  had  time  enough  to  choose,"  Mrs. 
Seawright  broke  in,  "  and  I'm  sure  you've  talked  about 
it  enough." 

"  Ricky  has  talked ;  I  haven't.     I  have  only  listened." 

He  looked  at  her  uneasily.  "  For  Heaven's  sake 
don't  play  anything  rotten  as  an  encore;  you  may  as 
well  be  consistent." 

"  I  shan't  be  encored." 

"  Well,  if  you  are." 

157 


158    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  can't  give  them  what  you 
think  they'll  like  best,"  Mrs.  Seawright  declared 
candidly.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  that's  what  they  pay 
their  money  to  hear." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  and  Ricky's  always  the  first  to  cry 
out  if  he  doesn't  get  what  he  likes." 

They  had  arranged  what  her  encores  were  to  be  long 
ago,  but  he  could  never  really  be  sure  of  her.  How  any- 
body could  play  as  she  played,  and  at  the  same  time 
have  such  a  horrible  amount  of  worldly  wisdom,  he  had 
never  understood. 

Even  after  he  had  taken  his  seat  in  the  hall  beside 
his  mother  and  Martin,  he  did  not  know  what  Grace 
would  play,  apart  from  the  two  items  on  the  programme, 
which,  of  course,  she  must  keep  to. 

There  was  scarcely  a  vacant  seat,  a  huge  crowd  having 
been  attracted  by  the  celebrated  tenor,  who  was  singing, 
as  usual,  his  most  popular  gramaphone  records.  Richard 
looked  behind  him,  eagerly  scanning  the  faces  in  the 
unreserved  area.  Nearly  at  once  he  saw  her.  Rose, 
seated  between  Everard  and  Mrs.  Jackson.  He  gazed 
at  her,  trying  to  attract  her  attention.  Then  their  eyes 
met,  and  she  smiled.  He  smiled  also,  and  his  colour 
deepened.  He  turned  round  again,  boyishly  happy  in 
spite  of  his  nervousness. 

A  vivid,  garish  light  beat  down  on  the  long  rows  of 
people.  The  balcony  was  packed  to  overflowing,  and 
in  the  seats,  rising,  tier  upon  tier,  from  the  platform,  on 
either  side  of  the  great  organ,  sat  the  chorus.  There 
was  a  murmur  of  voices,  a  creaking  of  chairs,  a  rustling 
of  programmes.  "  What  a  place  to  listen  to  music  in  !" 
he  thought. 

Between  her  two  sons,  Mrs.  Seawright,  in  a  plumed 


ROSE  159 

bonnet  and  black,  velvet-trimmed  mantle,  sat  stiffly 
erect,  glaring  straight  in  front  of  her.  The  only  people 
she  knew  in  the  hall  were  the  Wilberforces  and  Bessie. 
Martin  already  seemed  half-asleep.  There  was  a  burst 
of  applause  as  the  conductor  came  in  and  bowed.  He 
bowed  twice;  then,  turning  round,  tapped  with  hisf 
baton,  and  the  chorus  rose.  .  .  . 

The  whole  thing  struck  Richard  as  ludicrous  and 
unhappy — the  electric  light,  the  hard  wooden  chairs, 
the  gaudy  decorations,  the  protracted  business  of  recog- 
nizing acquaintances  in  distant  portions  of  the  house  and 
of  communicating  these  discoveries  to  one's  companions, 
the  squeaking  boots  of  the  little  boys  with  programmes, 
the  coughings  and  comments.  Grace's  name  was  third 
on  the  list,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  the  second  item — 
a  rollicking  bass  solo — a  feeling  of  almost  unbearable 
suspense  settled  upon  him.  He  felt  that  the  audience 
was  impatiently  looking  forward  to  the  tenor — other- 
wise the  last  song  would  have  been  encored.  This  did 
not  promise  well  for  Grace.  Martin,  reviving,  showed 
signs  of  amusement,  and  began  to  rally  his  mother.  She 
did  not  hear  him.  The  drooping  lines  of  her  mouth 
had  tightened,  her  eyes  were  glued  to  the  door  by  which 
Grace  would  enter,  and  a  deep  flush  suffused  her  face. 
A  man  crossed  the  platform  to  open  the  lid  of  the  piano, 
and  went  out  again.  .  .  .  What  was  keeping  her  ? 
What  could  have  happened  ?  Then  they  saw  her 
coming  out  from  behind  the  curtain  and  down  the  little 
flight  of  wooden  steps.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  her 
thin  arms  bare,  with  a  few  red  roses  that  Martin  had 
sent  up  from  town  fastened  at  her  waist.  Her  face,  as 
usual,  was  absolutely  colourless,  and  her  bow  was  stiff, 
just   a    Httle   jerk    of   the   head    to    the    good-natured 


i6o    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

audience  who  applauded  her.     She  looked  very  slight 
and  small. 

For  a  moment  or  two  after  sitting  down  on  the 
music-stool  she  paused,  and  then,  without  any  prelude, 
began  to  play  the  Waltzes.  Richard  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief.     It  was  all  right. 

With  lowered  eyes  he  tried  to  listen  to  her  as  if  she 
were  playing  to  him  in  the  room  at  home.  The  delicate, 
romantic  music  flowed  on  dreamily  and  happily; 
easily,  naturally,  like  the  song  of  a  bird.  And  but  for 
him  she  might  have  been  hammering  out  some  cheap 
tune  of  Liszt's  with  the  loud  pedal  down  !  No  longer 
nervous,  he  felt  proud  and  delighted,  with  a  pride  and 
delight  that  were  perhaps  more  enjoyable  than  any 
personal  triumph  could  have  been.  He  was  sorry  now 
that  he  had  promised  to  meet  Rose  after  the  concert. 
He  felt  sure  that  Grace  would  expect  him  to  walk 
home  with  her,  and  he  determined  to  do  so.  Rose 
would  understand. 

Grace  got  her  encore,  and  got  another  for  her  second 
piece,  the  Waldstein  Sonata;  and  she  played  the 
things  that  Richard  had  suggested — after  the 
Waltzes,  Brahms's  Intermezzo,  and  after  the  Beet- 
hoven, Grieg's  Spring-time.  Amid  the  applause  Mrs. 
Seawright,  under  instructions,  sat  severely  silent,  but  she 
made  up  for  this  to  some  extent  by  preserving  the  same 
attitude  during  the  entire  concert.  Secretly  she  was 
delighted  when  Martin  clapped  vociferously.  It  was 
Martin,  too,  who  had  thought  of  the  roses — he  was 
always  like  that. 

They  had  arranged  to  meet  Grace  in  the  porch  after 
the  performance,  but  before  reaching  the  door  Richard 
had  overtaken  Rose,  who  lingered  near  her  seat,  letting 


ROSE  i6i 

other  people,  including  Everard  and  Mrs.  Jackson,  pass 
out  first. 

"She  was  splendid!"  Rose  exclaimed,  bright-eyed 
and  happy. 

Martin  and  Mrs.  Seawright  looked  round. 

"  You  liked  her,  then  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  did.  I  should  have  preferred  something 
not  quite  so  classical  perhaps.  I  thought  in  the  encores, 
for  instance,  she  might " 

"  I'm  afraid  the  encores  were  my  fault." 

"  That's  too  bad.  She  oughtn't  to  have  listened  to 
you." 

"  Didn't  you  like  them  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  liked  them,  and  I  know  she  played  them 

beautifully "     She  still  stood  there,  looking  up  at 

him,  smiling,  and  he  noticed  that  Martin  and  his 
mother  had  by  this  time  reached  the  door,  through 
which  Mrs.  Jackson  and  Everard  had  already  dis- 
appeared. 

"  I  say,  would  you  mind  awfully  if  I  walked  home 
with  Grace  ?  I  think  she'll  expect  it,  though  it  didn't 
occur  to  me  when  I  saw  you  this  afternoon.  She'll  want 
to  talk  about  the  concert.     I'm  awfully  sorry." 

Rose's  face  altered  ever  so  little.     "  Oh,  certainly." 

She  followed  him  in  silence,  at  a  snail's  pace.  Then, 
as  they  reached  the  door,  she  said,  "  It  doesn't  matter 
if  I  have  to  walk  home  alone.  ...  I  dare  say  I  can 
get  a  tram." 

His  elation  subsided.  "  But  there's  no  need  for  that, 
surely.  Your  mother  and  Everard  have  just  gone  out 
this  minute.     I  can  easily  catch  them." 

"  No,  thanks.  I  told  them  not  to  wait.  I  should 
prefer  going  alone." 

II 


i62    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Then  you  want  me  not  to  walk  home  with  Grace  ?" 
he  asked,  his  face  faUing. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  who  you  walk  home  with.  Only 
please  don't  keep  me  standing  here  in  the  doorway;  it 
looks  rather  ridiculous." 

He  flushed,  for  he  had  in  fact  stopped  short  as  if 
to  bar  her  progress.  He  stepped  aside,  and  she  passed 
out  in  front  of  him  without  looking  back.  In  the 
vestibule,  near  the  cloak-room  door,  he  saw  the  others 
waiting.     Grace  came  forward  to  meet  him. 

"  You  were  frightfully  good,"  he  said  hurriedly,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  I'm  glad  you  were  pleased.  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
exactly  how  it  sounded — I  had  an  idea  that  it  mightn't 
be  carrying  properly,  but  I  didn't  want  to  thump." 

"  Yes."  He  looked  anxiously  after  Rose,  who  had 
gone  out  without  even  a  glance  in  their  direction.  "  I'll 
tell  you  later.  I  think  I'd  better  see  Miss  Jackson  home. 
She's  the  daughter  of  my  chief,  and  she's  all  alone." 

Grace  met  his  eyes  with  a  faint  smile,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

"  Good-bye  for  the  present."  And  he  hurried  after 
Rose. 

He  caught  up  with  her  before  she  had  gone  fifty 
yards.  It  was  raining  slightly.  He  took  her  umbrella, 
and  held  it  over  her.  "  You  must  come  home  with  me," 
he  said,  with  a  sudden,  brilliant  idea  of  patching  up 
the  situation  in  this  way.  "  Come  and  have  supper.  I 
want  to  introduce  you  to  my  mother  and  Grace.  You 
will  come,  won't  you  ?" 

"  But  it's  late,  and  mother  won't  know  where  I  am." 

"  It's  barely  ten  o'clock.  You  need  only  stay  for  half 
an  hour  or  so.     They'll  like  it  awfully  if  you  come." 


ROSE  163 

"  Are  you  sure  they'll  like  it  ?"  asked  Rose,  hesitating. 

"Quite  sure.  It  will  be  a  sort  of  congratulatory 
supper,  you  know." 

"  They  won't  think  it  peculiar  ?  Did  they  say  any- 
thing about  it?" 

"  You  told  me  that  you  wanted  to  meet  mother  and 
Grace.     What  better  opportunity  could  you  have?" 

She  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded,  but,  as  they 
neared  the  house,  she  became  conscious  of  further 
scruples.  "Nobody  will  be  there  yet!  I  can't  go  in 
with  you  alone." 

"  Oh  yes,  they*ll  be  there.  They'll  have  come  up  in 
the  tram." 

"  And  your  brother  ?" 

"  I  can't  promise  for  him,  unless  you're  willing  to  stay 
pretty  late." 

"  Does  he  stay  out  late  ?"  asked  Rose,  interested. 

"  Usually." 

"  And  do  you  ?" 

"  No  " 

She  looked  at  him  in  the  uncertain  light.  She  had 
met  him  six  times  in  all,  and  their  last  interview  had 
been  prolonged  and  even  intimate,  yet  her  original  im- 
pression of  him  had  not  altered.  He  attracted  her 
strongly,  and  at  the  same  time  made  her  feel  uneasy, 
now  and  then  almost  afraid.  There  was  something 
about  him  disquieting  and  unfathomable.  He  did  not  in 
the  least  resemble  the  type  of  youth  whose  company 
she  had  hitherto  found  most  agreeable.  The  fascination 
he  had  for  her  lay  partly  in  her  power  over  him — it 
was  like  having  a  power  over  some  strange,  beautiful, 
dangerous  creature  of  the  jungle.  And  in  the  very  idea 
of  his   beauty   lurked    something    provocative   of   that 


i64    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

mingled  feeling  with  which  she  regarded  him.  She 
thought  of  his  beauty,  of  the  grace  and  symmetry  of  his 
body,  and  it  was  just  because  she  had  never  had  such 
thoughts  before  that  she  shrank  from  them.  She  put 
everything  down  vaguely  to  his  "  peculiarity  " ;  and,  in 
spite  of  her  nervousness,  at  this  moment,  she  was  over- 
poweringly  curious  to  discover  if  the  others — his  mother, 
Martin,  Grace  Mallow — were  "  peculiar  "  also. 

Grace  had  not  yet  taken  off  her  hat,  but  was  sitting 
warming  herself  before  the  kitchen  fire  when  they 
entered;  and  the  first  thing  that  struck  Rose  was  that 
they  "  sat "  in  the  kitchen.  As  Richard  introduced  her 
to  Grace,  Mrs.  Seawright  came  in  from  the  scullery, 
wiping  her  hands  on  the  large  apron  she  had  tied  over 
her  Sunday  dress.  She  received  Rose  very  civilly,  but, 
watching  her  face,  he  could  discover  nothing  from  it 
as  to  the  light  in  which  she  regarded  such  a  visit.  The 
situation  was  awkward,  even  a  little  ridiculous,  though 
he  could  see  no  reason  why  it  should  be  so.  Rose  was 
nervous,  and  unexpectedly  developed  a  genteel  manner 
new  to  him,  and  far  from  reassuring.  She  appeared  to 
think,  as  they  sat  down  to  supper,  that  it  was  incumbent 
upon  her  to  praise  everything  lavishly.  She  desired,  he 
knew,  to  be  ingratiating,  but  the  effect  produced  was 
none  the  less  one  of  patronage,  and  he  could  see  that 
his  mother  did  not  like  it.  All  the  time  he  had  an 
uneasy  feeling  that  the  two  women  were  watching  her, 
judging  her,  and  he  coloured  with  the  sense  of  the 
false  note  she  was  striking,  longing  to  give  her  a  hint. 
Rose  fluttered  and  chirped,  making  a  good  deal  of 
noise,  like  a  brightly-plumaged,  uneasy  bird,  while,  as 
if  deliberately,  Grace's  manner  was  quieter  than  usual. 
Mrs.  Seawright  was  exactly   herself,   and   in   contrast 


ROSE  165 

with  her,  and  in  contrast  with  Grace,  Rose  appeared 
shallow  and  foolish.  He  met  his  mother's  eyes,  which 
rested  for  a  moment  upon  his,  but  Mrs.  Seawright's  gaze 
was  quite  inscrutable.  She  was  in  every  way  polite  to 
the  girl,  but  the  customary  dryness  of  her  manner  was 
not  in  the  least  abated.  His  sympathy  went  out  to 
Rose,  whom  he  had  brought  here,  after  all,  against  her 
own  better  judgment.  It  flashed  across  his  mind  that 
Grace,  who  forgot  nothing,  would  have  remembered  the 
story  he  had  confided  in  her  years  ago  of  their  first 
meeting.  Already,  he  knew,  she  had  summed  Rose  up 
— quite  wrongly.  So  had  his  mother.  Compared  with 
either  of  them,  she  might  not  be  very  deep;  but  there 
were  things,  he  felt,  that  were  preferable  to  depth,  and 
they  were  just  the  things  that  made  her  what  she  was. 
She  had  a  charm  which  was  all  the  more  delightful 
because  it  was  simple  as  the  charm  of  a  child. 

Conversation  naturally  hovered  about  the  recent 
concert.  That  was  all  very  well,  but,  filled  with  sus- 
picion, there  seemed  to  him  something  deliberate  in  the 
way  Grace  kept  leading  it  from  particularities  to  the 
subject  of  music  itself.  Rose  never  showed  to  advan- 
tage when  discussing  "  subjects."  He  tried  to  divert 
the  talk  into  other  channels,  but  the  girl  herself,  as  if 
resenting  his  interference,  was  evidently  bent  on  main- 
taining her  individuality  of  opinion.  Her  remarks  were 
silly  and  pretentious,  and  Grace  met  one  and  all  with 
an  infinite  tact  and  sympathy  that  infuriated  him.  He 
grew  angry  at  last  even  with  Rose.  "Why  is  she  so 
determined  to  make  a  fool  of  herself?"  he  thought 
impatiently,  as  the  girl  suddenly  developed  the  startling 
theory  that  it  is  only  an  affectation  that  makes  people 
say  they  care  for  classical  music.     And  each  new  remark 


i66    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

she  brought  forth  was  heralded  by  the  dreary  little 
statement,  delivered  in  her  flat,  sweet  little  voice,  that 
of  course  she  "  didn't  profess  to  know." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  so  sure,  then,  that 
other  people  know  even  less ! "  he  exclaimed  at  last,  in 
exasperation. 

"  I'm  sure  I  never  said  any  such  thing !"  Rose  replied, 
indignantly. 

"  You  said  it  a  minute  ago,  when  you  were  talking 
about  classical  music." 

The  girl  flushed.  "  Well,  I  don't  believe  anybody 
really  likes  those  sonatas.  You  might  just  as  well 
listen  to  somebody  playing  scales  and  exercises." 

Mrs.  Seawright  came  to  her  rescue.  "  I  must  say 
I  don't  care  myslf  for  a  lot  of  the  music  Grace  and 
Richard  admire." 

"  That  isn't  the  point,"  he  answered.  "  All  I  object 
to  is  that  I  should  be  accused  of  not  speaking  the 
truth  when  I  say  that  the  Waldstein  Sonata  gives 
me  pleasure." 

"  I  never  said  you  weren't  speaking  the  truth,"  cried 
Rose,  with  crimson  cheeks.  "  And  I  never  mentioned 
a  word  about  the  Waldstein  Sonata.  I've  got  better 
manners,  I  hope,  though  you  don't  seem  to  think  so." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  You  must  let  me  play  the  things  you  really  do 
like,"  interrupted  Grace,  gently. 

But  Rose,  who  considered  that  Richard  had  deserted 
her,  tossed  her  head  angrily.  "  Thanks,  I  can  play  them 
for  myself." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  you  can.  I  only  meant  that  I'd  like 
to  play  whatever  gave  you  most  pleasure." 

So  much  sweetness  did  not  soothe  Richard,  though 


ROSE  167 

it  mollified  Rose.  He  felt  just  then,  as  he  glowered 
down  at  the  table-cloth,  a  profound  dislike  for  all 
women.  "Damn  them,"  he  thought,  "you  can't  trust 
one  of  them  as  far  as  you  can  see  her."  He  was  furious 
with  Grace  because  of  the  way  Rose  was  behaving; 
angry  with  Rose  because  her  behaviour  humiliated  him ; 
angry  with  his  mother  because  she  remained  aloof  and 
unsympathetic. 

As  soon  as  they  had  finished  supper  Rose  got  up  and 
said  "Good-night."  The  strain  had  before  this  point 
become  slightly  relaxed,  nevertheless  no  one  made  any 
attempt  to  induce  her  to  prolong  her  visit.  Apparently 
she  had  not  forgiven  Richard  for  his  brief  siding  against 
her ;  in  fact,  it  was  with  him  alone  that  she  now  seemed 
annoyed,  treating  him  with  a  marked  coldness. 

She  declared  stiffly  that  there  was  no  necessity  for  his 
seeing  her  home,  she  was  quite  capable  of  taking  care 
of  herself.  This  speech  was  no  sooner  uttered  than  it 
reminded  both  of  them  of  the  circumstances  under  which 
they  had  first  met.  He  did  not  argue  the  point,  but 
simply  caught  up  his  hat  and  followed  her  down  the 
steps.  All  the  way  they  hardly  addressed  a  word  to 
each  other.  He  began  by  making  one  or  two  advances, 
but  these  were  received  so  icily  that  he  soon  relapsed 
into  a  gloomy  silence.  At  her  own  door,  as  she  looked 
for  a  moment  into  his  face,  she  relented,  and  felt  a 
sudden  desire  to  forgive  and  be  forgiven.  No  desire 
could  have  been  easier  to  gratify — she  had  but  to  make 
the  faintest  sign.  But  instead  she  held  out  her  hand, 
with  a  frigid  "  Good-night." 

He  answered  in  the  same  tone,  lifted  his  hat,  and 
walked  quickly  away. 


IV 

He  came  home  feeling  as  if  some  horrible  calamity 
had  happened,  which  could  never  be  set  right,  and  for 
a  long  time  he  lay  awake,  worrying  himself  into  a 
fever.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  deceived  in 
Rose.  He  thought  bitterly  of  the  indifference  she 
had  shown,  of  her  unfairness,  of  her  readiness  to  sacri- 
fice their  friendship.  It  could  have  meant  very  little 
to  her — nothing  at  all,  probably.  Yet  each  morning  he 
got  up  with  a  renewed  hope  that  he  would  find  a  letter 
from  her,  a  sign,  a  message — but  no  message  came. 

He  thought  of  writing  himself,  but  the  memory  of 
her  coldness  stirred  his  pride  and  kept  him  from  making 
any  further  advances.  If  she  cared  so  little  he  would 
not  force  himself  upon  her;  he  could  do  without  her. 
Morbidly  he  began  to  wonder  if  there  was  something 
about  him  essentially  unlovable,  and  he  resolved  never 
again  to  allow  himself  to  become  intimate  with  anyone. 
Nevertheless,  when  a  whole  week  had  gone  by  in  this 
fashion,  the  desire  to  make  yet  another  appeal  over- 
came everything  else.  He  would  write  and  ask  her 
definitely  what  he  had  done  to  offend  her.  If  she  did 
not  reply,  he  would  at  least  know  that  all  was  over. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  that  he  came  to  this 
resolution.  Grace  was  out  teaching,  and  Mrs.  Seawright 
had  gone  into  town,  so  that  he  was  all  alone.  He 
wrote  a  few  sentences  of  his  letter,  and  then  stared  out 
dismally    at    the    people    passing    in    the    rain.      And 

i68 


ROSE  .  169 

instantly  a  painful  thrill  of  excitement  went  through 
him,  for  there,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  with 
waterproof  and  umbrella,  he  saw  her.  Everything  else 
was  forgotten  and  he  rushed  downstairs.  She  looked 
up  as  he  flung  open  the  door ;  she  hesitated  a  moment — 
then  stepped  off  the  muddy  footpath  to  meet  him. 

They  met  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  were  nearly 
run  over  by  a  motor.  "  Come  in :  you  must  come  in," 
he  said  impetuously.  "  Do  come.  There's  nobody  here 
except  Bessie.  You  must  at  any  rate  shelter  till  this 
shower  is  over." 

She  stood  still,  smiling,  blushing,  letting  her  umbrella 
drip  on  to  his  shoulder,  looking,  he  thought,  adorable, 
in  spite  of  the  shapeless  waterproof.  And  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  if  she  was  there,  perhaps  it  was 
not  a  mere  accident,  but  because  she  had  wanted  to  see 
him,  wanted  to  make  friends.  A  great  eagerness  swept 
over  him.  It  was  as  if  Rose  herself  were  caught  up  in 
it,  for  she  obeyed  him  almost  without  a  word,  and  they 
entered  the  house  together. 

"  You  must  take  off  your  wet  things,"  he  said,  "  and 
we  must  have  tea.     Let  me  help  you." 

She  obeyed  passively,  pushing  back  the  hair  that 
had  escaped  from  under  her  little  round  toque.  As  he 
looked  delightedly  at  her  he  noticed  that  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  an  immense  tenderness  filled  him, 
so  that  for  a  moment  he  could  not  trust  himself  to 
speak. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  was  doing  when  I  saw  you  ?" 
he  asked  after  a  little,  his  voice  slightly  trembling. 

"  No." 

"  Guess." 

"  How  can  I  guess  ?"  she  whispered. 


170    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  I  was  writing  to  you." 

She  laughed  shyly.     "  Really  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  had  nearly  written  the  first  page,  and  then— 
I  looked  out  of  the  window — and  I  saw  you  " 

Their  voices  were  very  low,  yet  intensely  living.  It 
was  as  if,  in  these  commonplace  words,  something 
immensely  important  to  both  of  them  had  been  com- 
municated— a  secret  joy,  something  strange  and 
beautiful. 

"  You  must  give  me  the  letter,"  she  said. 

"  No  :  not  now.     I  will  tear  it  up." 

"  Please  give  it  to  me.  I  have  never  had  a  letter 
from  you." 

He  gazed,  spell-bound,  into  her  eyes.  "  You — you 
would  really  like  it  ?"  he  breathed. 

"  Of  course  I  should  like  it." 

He  drew  a  deep  sigh;  then  he  laughed  happily. 
"  Well,  I'm  going  to  make  tea  for  you  first." 

He  produced  a  brown  china  tea-pot  and  they  looked 
together  for  the  tea.  The  kettle  was  boiling  (Bessie 
had  put  it  on  for  herself),  and  very  soon  they  had  every- 
thing prepared.  The  making  of  tea  seemed  a  beautiful 
and  intimate  task. 

They  sat  down  before  the  fire  and  began  to  talk. 
What  was  said  did  not  very  much  matter :  it  bore  no 
closer  resemblance  to  the  inmost  emotion  than  a  star- 
map  does  to  the  glittering  midnight  sky.  What 
mattered  was  the  firelight  and  the  gathering  dusk  and 
the  joy  of  being  alone  there  together.  Once,  as  she  gave 
him  back  her  empty  cup,  her  hand  touched  his,  and  a 
thrill  of  a  strange  unknown  pleasure  sent  all  the  blood 
tingling  through  his  veins. 

It  grew  darker,  and  still  they  sat  on  talking,  telling 


ROSE  171 

those  wordless,  loving  secrets  that  birds  whisper  in  the 
green  spring  woods.  Suddenly  she  said  to  him,  "  Get 
me  the  letter  now  :  if  you  don't  give  it  to  me  now  I  know 
you  never  will." 

He  ran  upstairs  for  it.  When  he  came  back  he 
handed  her  the  half-written  sheet  of  paper  and  turned 
to  light  the  gas. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?"  she  asked. 

He  held  it  out  to  her  shyly,  a  photograph  in  a  leather 
frame.  "  I  saw  it  when  I  went  upstairs,  and  brought  it 
down  to  show  you.  It  is  the  only  one  I  ever  had  taken. 
I  got  it  done  for  a  birthday  present  for  mother." 

She  took  it  from  him.  It  was  a  cabinet  photograph 
representing  him  at  full  length,  standing  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back.  She  gazed  at  it,  while  he  stood  beside 
her,  leaning  over  her  chair.     "  How  old  were  you  then  ?" 

"  About  fifteen." 

"  I  like  it.  I  like  the  way  your  hair  tumbles  into 
your  eyes." 

"  I  remember  that  that  was  what  the  photographer 
didn't  like.  He  made  me  go  and  brush  it,  but  it  was 
no  good." 

She  lifted  her  face,  smiling  divinely.  "  May  I  have 
it  ?"  she  asked. 

He  hesitated.  "  It  isn't  mine  really.  It  belongs  to 
Grace." 

"  Oh."  A  look  of  disappointment  came  into  her  eyes. 
Her  delicate  colour  had  deepened  a  little ;  the  wind  had 
blown  loose  a  tiny  wisp  of  hair  behind  her  ear,  and  he 
felt  an  acute  desire  to  press  his  lips  to  it.  "  I  can  get 
another  print  done  for  Grace,"  he  said.  "  She  won't 
mind."  He  opened  the  back  of  the  frame  and  took  out 
the  photograph. 


172    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  Well,  I  must  go  now.     I  expect  the  rain  is  over." 

She  got  up  and  they  stood  facing  each  other.  A 
curious  stillness  seemed  to  come  upon  them  and  to  hold 
them  motionless.  "  Where  did  you  put  my  waterproof  ?" 
Rose  faltered. 

He  did  not  reply.  For  an  instant  the  whole  room 
swam  before  his  eyes,  and  his  limbs  shook  with  a  strange 
weakness.  Then  everything  became  blotted  out  save 
the  consciousness  that  he  had  kissed  her. 

He  felt  her  tremble,  recoil  from  him;  and  suddenly 
she  began  to  cry.  But  his  arms  still  held  her,  and  it 
was  upon  his  shoulder  that  she  hid  her  face.  He  held 
her  tightly  to  him,  whispering  broken  apologies,  kissing 
her  soft  hair.  With  closed  eyes  she  leaned  back  her 
head,  and  he  pressed  his  mouth  to  hers.  He  could  feel 
her  heart  beating.  She  strained  away  from  him,  and 
all  at  once  a  whiteness  came  into  her  face  and  she  lay 
yielding  and  motionless  in  his  arms. 

He  was  frightened  now,  for  he  knew  that  she  had 
fainted,  but  in  a  little  while  the  blood  flowed  back  into 
her  cheeks,  and  opening  her  eyes,  that  were  the  colour 
of  dark  wet  cornflowers,  she  smiled  at  him  through 
her  tears. 

"How  stupid  of  me!"  she  whispered,  and  he  half 
led,  half  carried  her  to  the  chair  she  had  been  sitting  in. 
"  I  don't  know  whaf  s  the  matter  with  me.  I'll  be  all 
right  in  a  minute."  But  as  he  sat  beside  her,  his  arms 
round  her,  her  head  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  she 
remained  very  quiet.  Her  cheek,  and  once  her  lips, 
rested  against  his  cheek.  Beyond,  in  the  shop,  they 
could  hear  Bessie  moving  about.     And  for  a  long  time 


ROSE  173 

they  sat  thus,  Rose  with  her  eyes  shut,  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  till,  as  he  looked 
down  at  her,  he  could  almost  believe  that  she  had 
dropped  asleep. 

The  noise  of  someone  coming  in  startled  her  and  she 
sprang  away  from  him.  It  was  Mrs.  Seawright,  who 
had  returned  from  town.  The  mother's  quick  eyes 
glanced  at  them,  and  they  both  blushed  hotly. 

"  I  came  in  to  shelter,"  Rose  said  quickly.  "  Mr. 
Seawright  saw  me  across  the  road,  and  insisted  that  I 
should  come  in." 

"  I'm  glad  he  was  so  thoughtful.  It's  turned  out  very 
wet.  You'd  better  wait  and  have  tea  now :  Grace  will 
be  in  at  six." 

"  No,  thanks  :   I  must  be  going." 

She  was  intensely  nervous,  and  no  persuasions  would 
induce  her  to  stay.  Richard,  stealthily  removing 
the  photograph  from  the  table,  accompanied  her  to  the 
door,  but  she  would  not  allow  him  to  come  further. 

He  stood  at  the  gate  for  some  time  after  she  had 
disappeared,  loath  to  return  to  that  cold,  reasonable 
atmosphere  which  he  knew  his  mother  would  have 
brought  in  with  her.  But  he  could  not  stand  there 
for  ever,  and,  plucking  up  courage,  he  came  back  to  the 
kitchen,  whistling,  and  settling  himself  with  an  air  of 
elaborate  unconcern  in  the  chair  Rose  had  risen  from. 
His  mother  was  laying  the  table,  and  took  no  notice  of 
him.  She  had  brought  home  an  evening  paper  and 
this  he  opened  with  ostentation,  while  he  waited  for  her 
to  say  something. 

Mrs.  Seawright,  however,  said  nothing,  and  the  silence 
was  broken  only  by  the  rattle  of  china  and  the  open- 
ing and  shutting  of  the  oven  door.     Presently  she  went 


174    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

out  into  the  shop  and  he  heard  her  talking  to  Bessie. 
He  began  to  think  that  she  wasn't  going  to  allude  to 
Rose  at  all,  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief  threw  away  the 
paper.  At  that  moment  Mrs.  Seawright  returned  and 
carefully  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

"  She  has  a  pretty  face,  but  I'm  afraid  she  isn't  very 
strong." 

He  blushed.  "  How  do  you  know  ?  What  makes 
you  think  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  know  the  kind.  They  eat  nothing,  and  what 
they  do  eat  they  can't  digest.  They're  all  right  for  a 
little,  but  not  for  long.  As  soon  as  they're  married  it's 
nothing  but  medicine  and  lying  down  after  every  meal." 

For  some  obscure  reason  he  felt  bitterly  offended  by 
this  description.  "  I  think  you  are  making  a  mistake," 
he  said  coldly.     "  Look  at  the  beautiful  colour  she  has  !" 

"  There's  not  much  colour  in  her  lips." 

He  was  silent,  but  as  his  mother  too  was  silent  this 
did  not  help  matters.  "  Do  you  like  her  ?"  he  at  last 
asked  faintly. 

"  You  would  be  better  asking  does  she  like  me." 

"  I  know  she  does." 

Mrs.  Seawright  pursued  her  labours  with  a  somewhat 
sardonic  smile. 

"  Surely  you  must  have  seen  how  nervous  she  was  the 
other  night.  I  never  saw  her  like  that  before.  It  was 
only  because  she  was  frightened.  I  had  told  her  about 
you." 

His  mother  gave  utterance  to  one  of  her  rare  laughs. 
"  You  must  have  told  her  nice  things  if  they  frightened 
her!" 

"  I  did  tell  her  nice  things.  But  I  told  her  you  were 
very  strict   and — particular.     Her    own    mother    isn't. 


ROSE  175 

She's  good-natured,  Fm  sure,  but  she's  awfully  slack  and 
untidy." 

"  It's  not  a  good  training  for  a  poor  man's  wife." 

"But  Rose  is  quite  different  from  the  rest  of  the 
family." 

"I  wonder?" 

"  She  is.     I  know  she  is." 

"  Then  that  settles  it,"  said  Mrs.  Seawright,  drily. 
"  Do  you  admire  her  ?  Have  you  begun  to  get  fond 
of  her  ?'" 

This  was  straightforward  enough  even  for  Richard, 

and  he  stammered  in  his  reply.     "  I Yes,  and  I 

know  her  better  than  you  think." 

"  Very  likely." 

"  I  intended  to  say  something  to  you  about  her." 

"  Well,  you'd  best  be  careful.  She's  weak  and  silly, 
and  you're  both  very  young.  Things  are  sometimes 
done  in  a  hurry  which  are  afterwards  hard  to  undo." 

As  he  lifted  his  eyes  he  saw  that  his  mother  was 
scrutinizing  him  closely,  and  his  cheeks  grew  hot. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?" 

"  Them  that  has  a  good  conscience  needn't  fear  being 
looked  at."     But  she  suddenly  stooped  and  kissed  him. 

"  Well,  I  have  a  good  conscience,"  he  replied. 

"  She  wouldn't  suit  you,  Richard.  I'm  not  just  saying 
that :  I  know  it.  She  wouldn't  make  you  happy,  and 
you  wouldn't  make  her  happy." 

"  But " 

"  I'm  not  one  that  sees  things  when  they're  not  there. 
If  she  had  been  a  different  kind  of  girl  I  wouldn't  have 
said  anything  against  your  being  friends  with  her.  But 
she's  fond  of  you,  whether  she's  told  you  so  or  not,  and 
you'd  better  not  go  any  further.     You'll  take  your  own 


176    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

way,  of  course,  but  at  least  do  it  with  your  eyes  open, 
and  try  to  think  of  what  it'll  be  like  ten  years,  or  for 
that  matter  two  years,  from  now.  She  shouldn't  have 
been  here  this  afternoon,  even  if  it  was  raining.  If  she 
could  come  out  in  the  rain,  she  could  have  gone  home 
in  it." 


Their  courtship,  it  is  to  be  feared,  was  carried  on  largely 
in  the  smoky  atmosphere  of  "  picture-houses,"  for  as  the 
winter  advanced  Rose  manifested  an  increasing  reluct- 
ance to  accompany  him  on  the  rambles  he  had  been 
used  to  take  on  Saturday  afternoons.  Once  he  had 
persuaded  her  to  come  to  a  concert  of  chamber-music 
in  which  Grace  was  taking  part,  but  the  experiment  had 
not  proved  successful,  and  the  following  week  they 
had  fallen  back  again  upon  the  "  pictures."  She  never 
tired  of  them,  discussing  all  the  thrilling  scenes  they 
witnessed  with  a  sort  of  artless  seriousness  which  seemed 
to  him  delightful ;  and  he  liked  to  sit  beside  her,  to  take 
her  hand  under  cover  of  the  darkness.  One  day,  after 
an  exciting  Indian  drama,  she  amazed  him  by  sug- 
gesting that  on  the  next  Saturday  they  should  go  to 
the  seaside :  she  was  sure  she  could  get  the  whole  day 
off  if  he  could.  It  seemed  to  him  that  January  was 
rather  an  odd  month  to  choose  for  an  excursion,  and  he 
also  recalled,  somewhat  tardily,  his  mother's  excellent 
advice.  But  in  the  face  of  Rose's  eagerness  these  con- 
siderations fell  into  the  background. 

"  Of  course,  I  may  not  be  able  to  get  away,"  he  said, 
and  it  was  the  only  objection  he  had  to  offer. 

"  Surely  they'll  do  that  much  for  you !  It's  not  as  if 
you  were  in  the  habit  of  asking  for  days  off,  the  way 
some  people  are." 

17;  w 


1/8    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

He  was  silent,  turning  the  matter  over  in  his  mind  a 
Httle  uneasily.  He  did  not  want  Rose  to  see  this 
uneasiness;  he  felt  himself  rather  ashamed  of  it;  but 
nevertheless  it  was  there.  "Will  you  say  anything 
about  it  at  home  ?"  he  asked  tentatively. 

She  glanced  at  him  before  replying,  and  suddenly 
coloured.  "  Of  course  I'll  tell  mother.  What  a  queer 
question !" 

He  was  afraid  that  he  had  offended  her  and 
immediately  became  enthusiastic.  "  Where  could  we 
go  to?     Have  you  thought  of  any  place?" 

"  I  thought  of  Newcastle.  I  remembered  your 
speaking  of  its  being  so  nice  there,  and  I  looked  out 
the  trains  and  everything.  But  of  course  if  you  don't 
want  to  come '* 

"  I  do  want  to  come.     I  want  to  come  very  much." 

At  the  same  time,  in  spite  of  this  brave  assurance,  he 
reflected  that  it  wouldn't  do  to  tell  his  mother,  and  he 
felt  this  even  more  when  he  reached  Myrtle  Row.  Mrs. 
Seawright  looked  worried  and  cross,  and  she  took  no 
notice  of  him  as  he  came  in. 

"  What's  brought  Grace  home  so  soon  ?"  he  asked 
rather  lamely,  listening  to  the  brilliant  music  which  filled 
the  little  house. 

His  mother  was  baking,  and  he  could  tell  from  the 
way  she  rolled  out  her  paste  that  something  had  hap- 
pened to  annoy  her.  "  You'd  better  ask  herself,"  she 
replied  with  a  good  deal  of  expression. 

He  had  begun  to  unlace  his  boots,  but  he  now  paused 
and  sat  staring  at  his  mother.     "What's  the  matter?" 

"  There's  nothing  the  matter  at  all — or  she  wouldn't 
be  playing  like  that.  .  .  .  You'd  think  she  was  doing 
it  on  purpose,"  Mrs.  Seawright  added  grimly. 


ROSE  179 

"  But  what  has  happened  ?" 

"  She'll  be  home  early  every  Saturday  now.  And  on 
Wednesdays  too,  I  suppose." 

His  thoughts  at  once  fled  to  Grace's  pupils.  "  Why  ? 
She  hasn't  lost  the  Campbells,  has  she  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  who  she's  lost.  You'd  think  she  had 
the  whole  world  to  pick  and  choose  from  !  And  you 
daren't  ask  for  a  reason.  That  would  be  too  much  to 
expect." 

"  But  what  has  happened  ?"  he  asked  again. 

"  I'm  telling  you  what  has  happened,  if  you'd  only 
let  me  speak.  Mr.  Campbell  asked  her  to  marry  him, 
and  she  said  '  No. ' "  Mrs.  Seawright  swung  round  and 
gave  a  violent  tug  at  a  damper. 

"  To  marry  him  !"  Richard  gaped. 

"  You  may  well  wonder.  It's  not  two  such  chances 
she'll  ever  have  in  this  world." 

He  was  astonished,  but  at  the  same  time  he  failed 
to  see  any  reason  for  his  mother's  irritation.  "  I  suppose 
she  doesn't  care  about  him,"  he  suggested. 

"  If  she  didn't,  I'd  say  nothing.  But  she  says  she 
does  care  about  him;  she  keeps  on  praising  him  up, 
saying  how  she's  always  liked  and  respected  him  more 
than  any  man  she  knows.  Those  are  the  very  words 
she  used ;  and  what  more  does  she  want  ?  It's  precious 
few  men  that  you  can  either  like  or  respect,  whether  you 
marry  them  or  not." 

Richard  allowed  this  generahzation  to  pass;  he  had 
grown  very  conciliatory  of  late.  "  After  all,  it's  her  own 
business,"  he  remarked. 

"  Look  what  a  match  it  would  be  !  Look  at  the  house 
she  would  have  !     Driving  about  in  her  own  motor-car  !" 

Richard  laughed. 


i8o    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"There's  nothing  to  laugh  at!"  said  his  mother, 
angrily.  "  It's  not  as  if  he  was  old.  He  told  her  his 
age.  Barely  fifty,  and  he  doesn't  look  it.  And  only 
those  two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl — that  she's  always 
said  she  likes  the  best  of  all  her  pupils.  .  .  .  There's 
one  thing  he  had  sense  enough  to  do,  and  that  was  not 
to  let  her  answer  straight  away.  He  made  her  promise 
to  think  it  over  for  three  weeks." 

"  Well  then  it  may  be  all  right." 

"  Aye — maybe.  Did  you  ever  know  her  to  change 
her  mind  about  anything  ?  She's  as  obstinate  as  you 
are  yourself.  Just  listen  to  her !"  Mrs.  Seawright 
paused,  the  lid  of  the  flour-bin  in  her  hand,  her  ruddy 
face  lifted  to  the  ceiling.  "  And  she  might  have  been 
settled  for  life,  with  nothing  to  do  but  give  orders  to 
her  servants." 

"  Mother  dear,  I  think  all  this  is  rather  horrid." 

As  he  spoke  these  last  words  he  got  up,  and  left  the 
kitchen  before  Mrs.  Seawright  had  time  to  reply.  Never- 
theless, he  felt  himself  that  it  was  a  pity.  Outside,  on 
the  landing,  he  stood  listening  for  a  minute  or  two 
before  he  opened  the  door.  When  he  entered,  Grace 
did  not  stop  playing.  She  struck  him,  indeed,  as  not 
at  all  resembling  a  young  person  who  has  just  been 
carefully  considering  the  claims  of  a  highly  eligible 
suitor,  and  he  thought  it  very  probable  that  her  air  of 
imperturbability  had  something  to  do  with  Mrs.  Sea- 
wright's  so  opposite  demeanour.  When  she  had  finished 
her  piece  she  wheeled  half  round  on  the  music-stool,  a 
slight  smile  upon  her  lips. 

He  suddenly  found  himself  taking  his  mother's  point 
of  view.  What  could  be  better  for  her  than  to  be 
happily  married  to  a  man  she  liked,  even  if  she  had  no 


ROSE  iSt 

very  sentimental  feeling  for  him— a  kindly,  pleasant 
gentleman,  such  as  Mr.  Campbell  had  every  appearance 
of  being.  It  would  make  her  future  so  secure.  He 
dwelt  on  this  idea  with  a  sort  of  brotherly  benevolence, 
luxuriating  in  the  emotion  of  sympathy  at  second-hand. 

"Mother  has  been  telling  me  about  Mr.  Campbell," 
he  began,  idiotically.  "I  should  like  awfully  to  see 
you  happy." 

Grace  went  very  white,  though  she  still  continued  to 

smile. 

It  was  only  when  his  words  were  actually  spoken  that 
he  realized  their  fatuousness;  and  with  the  strange 
blanching  of  the  girl's  face  there  flashed  upon  him  a 
sudden,  bewildering  suspicion  as  to  what  the  reason 
was  that  she  had  been  unable  to  give  to  Mrs.  Seawright. 
The  whole  thing  hung  there  between  them,  hung  there 
with  her  own  consciousness  of  its  betrayal,  and  with  his 
consciousness  of  stupidity  and  shame.  He  saw  her 
stare  at  it,  and  then  take  it  in,  while  he  stood  beside 
her,  too  sick  with  himself  even  to  try  to  cover  it  up. 
He  had  the  courage  only  not  to  look  away  from  her, 
not  to  pretend  not  to  know.  Without  saying  anything 
she  began  again  to  play,  mechanically,  with  a  sort  of 
resignation  more  painful  to  him  even  than  her 
distress.  She  had  understood — understood  what  he 
felt,  and  she  was  helping  him.  It  was  as  if  something 
which  had  hovered  for  years  between  them  had  been 
torn  aside — a  veil,  a  curtain.  There  was  a  moment 
when  the  cry  of  her  spirit  seemed  to  draw  an  answering 
cry  from  his,  and  in  the  strange  grey-green  light  of  her 
eyes  he  read  all  that  had  sounded  from  time  to  time 
through  her  music,  all  that  he  had  sometimes  suspected, 
and   again  had  put  from   him   as  impossible,   as   the 


i82    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

foolish  credulous  prompting  of  his  own  egotism.  And 
she  went  on  playing.  No  word  was  spoken,  but  he 
sat  down  at  the  other  side  of  the  room  and  listened  to 
her.  And  an  intense  sadness,  like  a  cold,  heavy  mist, 
seemed  to  stream  into  the  little  room. 


VI 

Very  few  people  were  in  the  train  when  they  arrived, 
and  they  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  a  carriage  to  them- 
selves. He  noticed,  as  they  took  their  seats,  her  hght 
flimsy  boots,  and  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  that 
long  walk  among  the  hills  which  had  figured  so  largely 
in  the  plans  she  had  made.  It  was  a  cold  bright 
morning,  and,  once  they  had  left  the  outskirts  of  the 
city  behind,  a  white  delicate  powder  of  snow  was  visible 
everywhere,  glittering  on  the  grass  and  on  the  hedges, 
resting  like  fine  lace-work  upon  the  dark  rich  soil  of 
arable  land.  A  denser  snow,  dazzling  in  the  sunlight, 
covered  the  upper  slopes  of  the  Mourne  Mountains,  as 
they  caught  their  first  glimpse  of  them  from  the  window 
of  the  train,  the  black  pines  standing  out  stiffly  in  the 
clear  air.  He  thought  it  would  be  delightful  to  climb 
up  amongst  them,  and  the  view  from  the  summit  would 
be  glorious,  but  of  course  for  Rose,  booted  as  she  was, 
the  ascent  would  be  impossible. 

They  went  straight  to  the  hotel,  with  the  idea  of 
getting  an  early  lunch  and  making  the  most  of  the 
afternoon.  Now  that  she  was  actually  on  the  spot, 
however,  Rose  seemed  to  have  become  much  less 
enthusiastic  in  regard  to  an  exploration  of  the  country 
side.  She  appeared  indeed  quite  content  to  look  at 
everything  through  a  window.  The  biting  wind  blowing 
straight  in  from  the  sea,  the  wind  which  sent  the  rich 
blood  tingling  through  his  veins,  caused  her  to  shrink 

183 


i84    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

and  shrivel  like  a  hot-house  flower  under  exposure.  The 
colour  that  glowed  in  his  cheeks  forsook  hers,  appearing 
in  other  places,  her  nose,  her  eyelids,  her  ears,  robbing 
her  cruelly  and  swiftly  of  all  her  prettiness.  While  he 
discussed  what  particular  walk  they  should  take,  she 
was  obviously  loath  to  leave  her  chair  by  the  fire,  and 
Richard,  standing  at  the  window,  gazing  out  at  the 
grey  desolate  sea,  and  the  greyer  sky,  against  which 
the  white  gulls  wheeled  in  restless  screaming  circles, 
wondered  if  she  really  intended  to  go  out  at  all.  He  had, 
in  truth,  been  not  a  little  dismayed  at  the  change  her 
altered  appearance  produced  in  his  feeling  towards 
her.  Moreover,  the  unexpected  coldness  of  the  railway 
journey,  and  her  consciousness  that  cold  invariably  made 
her  look  at  her  worst,  had  brought  out  a  certain  peevish- 
ness in  her  character  which  till  then  he  had  had  no 
suspicion  of.  He  came  over  and  sat  beside  her,  for 
nothing  would  induce  her  to  go  for  the  walk  over  the 
golf  links,  which  he  had  suggested  as  a  means  of  passing 
the  time  till  lunch  was  ready.  She  looked  out  at  the 
white  expanse  of  snow-swept  sandhills,  and  at  the  dark 
sea  tumbling  below  them,  and  that  was  enough.  Under 
the  influence  of  the  blazing  fire,  however,  she  recovered 
her  good-humour.  She  began  to  tell  him  that  yesterday 
there  had  been  a  revival  in  the  spirit  manifestations, 
which  ever  since  his  first  visit  to  their  house  had  sunk 
into  abeyance.  Her  father  had  received  two  more 
letters :  they  had  floated  in  to  him  through  the  open 
study  window.  As  she  described  what  had  happened, 
he  sat  watching  her  uneasily. 

"  But  you  know  it's  all  rot,  don't  you  ?"  he  ques- 
tioned anxiously.  "I  mean,  you  don't  really  believe 
that  the  letters  came  from  anybody  but  your  brother  ? 


ROSE  185 

He  wrote  them  and  chucked  them  in  through  the 
window.  It  ought  to  be  stopped.  A  joke  is  all  very 
well,  but  I  don't  care  for  this  particular  kind  of  joke, 
and  it  has  been  carried  a  good  deal  too  far  already. 
You  see,  your  father  takes  these  things  seriously." 

Rose's  face  was  filled  with  incredulity  and  astonish- 
ment.    "  You  think  it  was  Ev^  then  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  The  whole  thing  was  Ev,  and 
always  has  been  Ev." 

"  But  that's  quite  impossible,"  she  answered  quickly. 
"  You  don't  know  him  :  he  doesn't  tell  lies.  He's  not 
that  sort  of  boy  at  all,  and  I  don't  think  you've  any 
right  to  accuse  him  simply  because  you  happen  to  have 
taken  a  dislike  to  him.  It's  not  fair :  it's  very  unkind 
of  you." 

The  unexpected  warmth  of  her  manner,  its  unreason- 
ableness, and  the  quickness  with  which  she  had  taken 
sides  against  him,  when  her  brother  was  in  question, 
exasperated  Richard.  "  He's  a  pretty  young  blackgi;iard 
to  enjoy  making  a  fool  of  his  own  father,"  he  said, 
disgustedly. 

"  I  think  you're  horrid  when  you  talk  like  that,"  Rose 
answered,  tears  suddenly  appearing  in  her  eyes.  "  You 
haven't  any  right  to  say  such  things;  especially  when 
he's  not  here  to  defend  himself." 

"  I'd  say  them  if  he  was  here.  I  told  your  father 
long  ago  that  I  was  sure  he  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
whole  thing." 

"And  papa  didn't  believe  you!"  cried  Rose, 
triumphantly. 

"  No ;  he  didn't  believe  me." 

"  I  think  you're  most  unjust  and  unkind.  You  know, 
too,  that  Ev  isn't  very  strong." 


i86    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  I  daresay  he  isn't :  though  I  can't  see  that  that  has 
anything  to  do  with  the  truth  of  what  I  have  been 
saying." 

"  It  has  to  do  with  it  in  this  way,  that  you  shouldn't 
be  unkind  to  him." 

"  How  am  I  unkind  ?"  he  asked  patiently. 

"  You  called  him  names." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to.  Besides,  by  ignoring  what  is 
going  on  you're  not  really  doing  him  any  good.  He 
ought  to  be  sent  to  a  farm  and  made  to  work  in  the 
open  air." 

"  But  you've  no  proof  that  he  has  done  anything ! " 
cried  Rose,  with  renewed  indignation. 

"No;  I've  no  proof" 

He  said  nothing  further,  but  Rose  said  a  great  deal. 
Her  fondness  for  her  brother  was  to  Richard  incom- 
prehensible. Everard  affected  him  disagreeably.  It 
was  as  if  his  ugliness  were  a  mysterious  growth  that 
had  spread  outward  from  within,  a  sort  of  spiritual 
fungus  that  had  pushed  its  way  to  the  surface, 
materializing  at  the  touch  of  the  outer  air. 

But  he  had  not  come  away  to  squabble  about  such 
matters,  and  the  next  half-hour  he  spent  in  trying  to 
induce  Rose  to  forgive  him.  Even  when  she  eventually 
did  so,  it  was  only  because  he  pretended  to  be  convinced 
that  his  suspicions  were  groundless,  and  expressed  the 
deepest  regret  for  having  entertained  them. 

At  length,  when  lunch  was  over.  Rose  decided  to 
venture  forth  into  the  cold.  The  frozen  ground  was 
hard  as  iron,  and  they  chose  the  path  to  the  woods, 
where  it  seemed  to  Richard  they  would  be  most  shel- 
tered. But  when  they  reached  the  woods  themselves 
Rose  was  not  happy.     The  black  gaunt  trees,  the  dark 


ROSE  187 

mysterious    paths    winding    away    into    unfathomable 
shadow,  the  lonehness  and  stillness,  depressed  her. 

"Aren't  we  trespassing?"  she  murmured  uneasily, 
clinging  to  his  arm. 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  so.  Visitors  are  allowed  in  on 
Saturdays :   at  any  rate,  they  are  during  the  summer." 

She  shivered  as  the  mournful  scream  of  a  seagull  came 
from  somewhere  below  them,  with  an  inexpressible  effect 
of  desolation.  "  If  we  went  back  to  the  hotel  we  could 
have  tea." 

"  We  might  have  had  tea  without  taking  the  trouble 
to  come  on  a  three  hours'  railway  journey,"  he  replied, 
unwisely. 

"  It's  not  three  hours,"  she  argued. 

"  It's  three  hours,  if  you  count  both  going  and 
coming." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I'm  sorry  I  ever  suggested  it.  You 
can  stay  here  and  I'll  go  back  by  myself." 

He  made  no  answer,  but  presently  he  said,  "  There's 
a  famous  picture  in  the  house — a  Velasquez.  I  daresay 
they'd  let  us  look  at  it  if  we  asked  at  the  door.  At  any 
rate,  they  can't  do  more  than  refuse.     Shall  we  try  ?" 

She  was  not  enthusiastic.  "  I  don't  know.  What 
sort  of  picture  is  it  ?" 

He  guessed  from  her  manner  that  whatever  sort  it  was 
it  would  not  please  her,  and  he  did  not  press  the  point. 
But  on  their  way  back  to  the  hotel,  as  the  house  itself 
for  a  moment  came  into  sight,  she  suddenly  changed 
her  mind. 

"  If  it  won't  take  us  long,  I  suppose  we  might  as  well 
see  it,"  she  murmured,  and  when,  in  response  to  Richard's 
knock,  the  door  opened,  she  gazed  with  undisguised 
curiosity  into  the  hall. 


1 88    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

The  servant  who  listened  to  their  request  replied  that 
Mrs.  Carroll  was  away  from  home,  but  that  she  would 
ask  Miss  Dick.  She  left  them  standing  in  the  porch, 
returning  almost  immediately,  accompanied  by  a  thin, 
sharp-featured  lady,  who  bore  a  remarkable  resem- 
blance to  a  lean  and  distracted  fowl.  This  lady 
inspected  them  kindly,  with  a  slight  smile  and  a  quick 
jerky  motion  of  her  head  as  she  looked  from  one  to  the 
other.  She  seemed  at  once,  from  the  manner  in  which 
she  regarded  them,  to  have  leaped  to  romantic  con- 
clusions concerning  their  relationship,  and  her  bright 
glance  hovered  over  them  approvingly.  Rose  was  a 
little  awed  by  the  grandeur  of  the  house,  and  as  Miss 
Dick  preceded  them  up  the  broad  staircase,  she  drew 
Richard's  attention,  by  mute  signs,  to  the  thick  carpet 
into  which  their  feet  sank  noiselessly.  "  It's  just  like 
they  have  in  Robinson  and  Cleaver's,"  she  whispered. 
In  her  efforts  to  obtain  clandestine  peeps  through  half- 
opened  doors  she  dragged  a  little  behind  the  others. 

"Why  it's  a  portrait!"  she  exclaimed  in  disappoint- 
ment, when  she  was  face  to  face  with  the  Velasquez. 
She  turned  to  Richard.  "  You  told  me  it  was  a 
picture !" 

He  coloured,  but  said  nothing. 

"You  prefer  subject-pictures,  I  expect,"  Miss  Dick 
remarked  kindly.  "I  prefer  them  myself;  but  this  was 
painted  by  a  very  famous  artist." 

Rose  was  not  convinced.  Secretly,  she  thought  it 
hideous,  stiff  and  stupid,  not  even  bright  in  colour.  She 
suddenly  determined  to  show  that  she  was  not  the 
gaping  shop-girl  Miss  Dick  perhaps  imagined  her  to 
be.  "  We're  staying  at  the  hotel,"  she  announced  in  her 
society  tone,  "  and  thought  it  would  be  pleasant  to  have 


ROSE  189 

a  look  at  the  picture.  One  gets  so  tired  of  one's  own 
pictures  that  one  Hkes  a  change." 

"  Of  course.  I  hope  you'll  find  the  hotel  comfortable. 
You  must  have  it  almost  to  yourselves  just  now."  Miss 
Dick's  bright  eyes  rested  on  Richard,  who  had  coloured 
again  at  Rose's  last  remark.  She  thought  him  extra- 
ordinarily handsome,  and  later  was  able  to  give  a  vivid 
description  of  his  appearance  to  Mrs.  Carroll.  ("  I  wasn't 
quite  able  to  place  him.  A  young  plumber  or — some- 
thing of  that  sort;  but  of  really  wonderful  personal 
beauty.")  A  flood  of  sympathy  for  this  very  young 
couple  had  swept  into  her  susceptible  heart,  and  she  at 
once  proceeded  to  give  expression  to  it,  throwing 
prudence  to  the  winds.  "  1  expect  you  won't  mind 
having  the  place  to  yourselves,  I  can't  help  feeling  that 
you  haven't  been  married  very  long;  indeed,  that  this 
must  really  be  your  honeymoon."  She  beamed  upon 
them  in  the  delight  of  her  discovery. 

Richard  turned  away.  He  felt  a  little  sick,  and  Rose 
saw  too  that  her  small  fabrication  about  their  stopping 
at  the  hotel  entailed  other  consequences  than  the  merely 
social  significance  she  had  intended. 

"  Yes,"  she  faltered,  seeing  that  Miss  Dick  waited  for 
an  answer,  and  that  Richard  had  deserted  her. 

The  inspection  of  the  portrait  had  been  brief,  and 
Miss  Dick  now  followed  them  downstairs;  but  in  the 
hall  she  again  turned  to  the  young  man.  "  If  you  are 
fond  of  pictures,  there  are  some  etchings  in  the  library 
that  might  interest  you  ?"  (She  wondered  if  he  were  a 
printer,  perhaps — not  a  plumber.)  "  Mr.  Peter  Waring 
collected  them.  You  may  possibly  have  heard  of  him — 
the  art-critic,  you  know.  He  used  to  be  constantly  here 
when  he  was  a  boy,  though  we  very  seldom  see  him 


190    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

now.  He  lives  in  Italy.  Perhaps,  however,  you  are  not 
interested  in  etchings  ?" 

"  No ;  I  don't  know  much  about  them,"  Richard  said, 
wishing  he  had  never  come,  and  anxious  only  to  get 
out  before  some  fresh  folly  fell  from  Rose's  lips. 

They  thanked  Miss  Dick,  Rose  with  an  additional 
"  So  pleased  to  have  met  you,"  and  a  hand  thrust  out 
which  Miss  Dick,  not  having  expected  it,  failed  to  meet, 
holding  out  her  own  too  late.  Their  exit  was  not 
accomplished  gracefully. 

"  Old  cat ! "  Rose  breathed  with  unexpected  vicious- 
ness,  as  they  found  themselves  walking  down  the  drive. 
"  What  did  she  want  prying  about  and  asking  ques- 
tions ?" 

"  She  wouldn't  have  asked  any  if  she  hadn't  been 
told  an  untruth."  He  felt  a  cold  resentment  against 
her  :  she  hadn't  even  allowed  him  to  look  at  the  picture, 
with  her  inane  posing. 

Rose  was  silent,  and  they  walked  down  the  drive  in 
the  darkness,  he  nursing  his  angry  feelings,  till  suddenly 
a  little  betraying  sound  reached  his  ears  and  he  knew 
that  she  was  crying.  He  waited  yet  a  moment  longer 
before  putting  his  arm  round  her. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  through  whose 
gentleness  a  certain  weariness  might  have  been  detected. 

"  It  does :  it  does,"  she  sobbed,  flinging  herself  on 
his  breast.  "  Our  whole  day  has  been  horrid ;  and  I 
was  looking  forward  to  it  so.  I  thought  we'd  be  so 
happy." 

He  kissed  her,  and  they  pursued  their  way  back  to 
the  hotel,  where,  after  tea,  over  the  fire.  Rose  rapidly 
recovered  her  cheerfulness. 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  thinking  of  train  time,  but 


ROSE  191 

there  was  no  hurry.  Twenty  minutes  later  they  started, 
and  were  surprised,  on  emerging  from  the  hotel  grounds, 
to  find  the  station  in  darkness,  the  entrance  doors  shut. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  murmured,  and  ran  across  the 
road  to  a  greengrocer's  shop. 

When  he  rejoined  her  he  looked  worried.  "  There's 
not  another  train,"  he  said.  "  The  last  went  nearly 
half  an  hour  ago." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  startled  eyes.  "But  it  said 
in  the  Guide  seven-twenty-five." 

"  Your  Guide  must  be  an  old  one.  The  seven- 
twenty-five  does  not  run  during  the  winter.  I  asked 
the  man." 

She  began  to  fumble  in  her  pocket. 

"  Don't  bother  about  it,"  he  went  on.  "  The  man 
knows.  Besides,  you  can  see  for  yourself  that  the  place 
is  shut  up  for  the  night.  I'd  better  send  a  wire  home 
at  once.  If  you  go  back  to  the  hotel,  I'll  go  on  to  the 
post  office  and  do  it  now.     I  won't  be  long." 

He  had  left  her  before  she  had  time  to  speak,  and  she 
retraced  her  steps  up  the  path  they  had  just  descended. 
When  he  came  in  she  had  found  the  little  paper  Guide. 
"  It's  a  September  one,"  she  said  dolefully.  "  It's  not 
so  very  old.  And  there's  even  a  train  at  eight-forty, 
though  it  says  '  Thursdays  only.' " 

"  Yes.  It's  lucky  that  to-morrow  will  be  Sunday.  It 
was  very  stupid  of  me.  I  ought  to  have  made  sure  of 
the  trains  myself." 

"  I  never  knew  they  changed  about  that  way,"  Rose 
quavered,  "  especially  in  a  little  bit  of  a  place  like  this." 

"  This  is  just  the  kind  of  place  where  they  do  change. 
Very  few  people  come  down  here  in  the  winter,  except 
at  Christmas." 


192    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

Her  eyes  questioned  him  nervously.  "  What  shall 
we  do  ?" 

"  We'll  have  dinner."  He  smiled  reassuringly.  "  After 
all,  it's  not  a  matter  of  life  and  death  importance." 

But  Rose  continued  to  take  it  very  seriously.  "  You 
sent  the  wires  ?" 

"  Yes :  one  to  your  mother,  and  one  to  mine." 

"  What  name  did  you  put  ?"  she  suddenly  gasped. 

"  My  own  name,  naturally.     Why  ?" 

"But  on  mine?" 

"  The  same.  I  said  we'd  missed  the  train."  Then, 
as  he  noticed  the  scared  expression  upon  her  face, 
"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  asked. 

"  It— it's  nothing." 

He  had  a  sudden  suspicion,  and  he  looked  at  her 
closely.  "Did  you  not  tell  your  mother  you  were 
coming  with  me  ?     You  told  me  you  were  going  to." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  his  suspicion  became  a 
certainty.      "  Did  you  tell  her  ?"  he  persisted. 

"  I— I  thought " 

"  Why  did  you  say  you  were  going  to,  if  you  weren't  ? 
You  told  me  she  had  allowed  you  to  come." 

"  I — I  was  afraid  she  might  object." 

He  was  helpless  before  this  fresh  complication. 

"  What  did  you  tell  her  ?"  he  questioned  at  last.  "  You 
must  have  given  some  excuse  for  being  away  all  day 
like  this." 

"  I  told  her  I  was  coming  with  Miss  Clarke  and  Miss 
Jamison.  .  .  .  They're  girls  in  the  office,  and  we  went 
a  picnic  together  last  summer." 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  speak.  "  Well,  the  wire's 
gone  now," and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  know.     And  you  hurried  me  so,  or  I  would  have 


ROSE  193 

told  you  not  to  put  your  name  to  it.  You  might  have 
thought  of  it  yourself:  but  you  do  everything  in  such 
a  hurry ! " 

"We  needn't  begin  to  find  fault  with  each  other. 
What's  done  can't  be  undone." 

"  Yes ;  it  doesn't  matter  to  you ;  but  what  will  mother 
think  of  me  ?" 

"  You'll  have  to  tell  her  the  truth — I  mean,  the  whole 
truth.  Don't  tell  her  that  I  just  happened  to  meet  you 
here  by  chance,  and  don't  tell  her  that  the  other  girls 
were  with  us." 

She  received  this  not  particularly  flattering  advice 
submissively.  At  dinner  the  very  few  other  persons 
present  were  in  evening  dress,  and  Rose  and  her  com- 
panion sat,  feeling  very  much  isolated,  at  a  little  table 
in  a  corner.  The  waiter  was  patronizing,  and  they  were 
invariably  helped  last.  Richard,  in  imitation  of  his 
neighbours,  and  perhaps  a  little  with  the  idea  of 
impressing  the  waiter,  asked  for  the  wine  list.  Neither 
he  nor  Rose  had  ever  tasted  wine  in  their  lives,  and 
he  scanned  the  list  uneasily  under  the  waiter's  cynical 
eye,  wishing  he  knew  what  had  been  ordered  at  the 
other  table.  After  a  hurried  consideration  of  names 
that  suggested  nothing  to  him  he  remembered  having 
heard  Martin  say  that  port  was  practically  a  temperance 
drink,  and  he  knew  that  he  and  Charlie  McGlade  drank 
it  when  they  were  what  they  called  "  off  booze."  He 
ordered  a  bottle. 

As  dinner  progressed  a  feeling  of  warmth  and  com- 
fort stole  over  him,  and  the  only  thing  that  now  really 
troubled  him  in  regard  to  their  mishap  was  the  lie  Rose 
had  told  her  mother.  He  leaned  a  little  to  her  across 
the  table.     "  Are  you  still  angry  with  me  ?"  he  asked. 

^3        -    , 


194    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

She  coloured.  A  smile  trembled  at  the  corners  of  her 
lips  and  in  her  dark  blue  eyes.  "  It's  more  my  fault 
than  yours." 

The  cynical  waiter  suggested  coffee,  which  they  both 
refused,  now  suddenly  grown  bold.  Richard  wondered 
whether  he  ought  to  give  the  waiter  a  tip  at  once,  or 
keep  it  till  they  were  leaving  the  hotel.  The  other 
party,  consisting  of  four  men  and  three  ladies,  had  risen 
from  their  table.  Coffee  was  to  be  brought  to  them  in 
the  billiard-room.  Rose's  opinion  of  them  all  had 
declined  when  she  heard  the  youngest  girl  challenging 
one  of  the  men  to  give  her  thirty  in  a  hundred.  "  They 
can't  be  real  ladies,"  she  declared. 

"  Why  ?" 

"  If  they  were  they  wouldn't  go  to  the  billiard-room." 

"  But  they're  all  friends.  The  old  man,  the  one  they 
called  Colonel,  is  her  father." 

"  He  mayn't  be  a  real  colonel." 

It  was  a  point  which  he  knew  she  would  be  capable 
of  discussing  for  hours,  so  he  allowed  it  to  pass.  "  I 
think  I'll  go  out  and  see  if  I  can't  get  a  motor  to  take 
us  back.  It's  just  possible  there  may  be  one  we  could 
hire." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  frightfully  expensive  ?" 

"  I  haven't  any  idea ;  but  we'll  take  it  if  it's  there." 

He  left  her  in  the  drawing-room  while  he  went  to 
make  inquiries.  He  learned  that  he  might  be  able  to 
engage  a  car  at  the  posting  establishment;  but  once 
more  luck  was  against  them.  There  was  a  car,  but  it 
was  out.  It  had  taken  some  people  over  to  Castlewellan 
and  would  not  be  back  till  late.  A  horse  car  was 
impossible,  the  man  said,  for  the  roads  were  slippery  as 
ice.     He  himself  had  evidently  been  keeping  out  the 


ROSE  195 

cold  by  somewhat  liberal  potations  that  produced  a 
strong  aroma  each  time  he  opened  his  mouth,  and  he 
became  insolent  as  soon  as  Richard  tried  to  press  the 
point.  In  the  end  he  was  obliged  to  return  to  Rose 
and  report  his  lack  of  success. 

She  appeared  to  have  become  much  more  reconciled 
to  what  had  occurred.  "  We  must  take  the  first  train 
in  the  morning,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  I  suppose  so.  In  the  meantime,  it's  only  a  little 
after  nine.     What  would  you  like  to  do  ?" 

"  What  is  there  to  do  ?  I'm  certainly  not  going  out 
for  another  walk." 

They  had  the  room  to  themselves  and  he  remembered 
a  volume  of  Browning's  poems  that  was  in  the  pocket 
of  his  overcoat.  He  went  in  search  of  it,  with  the  idea 
of  reading  to  her,  though  Browning  was  hardly  likely 
to  be  her  favourite  author. 

For  some  time  the  little  red  book  lay  unopened  on  a 
table  near  them  while  they  sat  talking.  The  discussion 
of  their  situation  had  engendered  in  each  a  cer- 
tain self-consciousness,  and  there  were  lengthy  silences 
between  their  words.  He  had  never  indeed  known  Rose 
to  be  so  quiet.  The  memory  of  the  kiss  given  and 
returned  on  the  afternoon  when  she  had  come  to  see 
him  floated  about  them,  and  gradually  it  seemed  to 
create  an  atmosphere  that  had  not  been  there  before. 
He  was  conscious  of  it,  afraid  of  it,  the  more  afraid 
because  he  perceived,  or  imagined  he  perceived,  that  it 
had  taken  possession  of  Rose  also.  He  felt  its  strange 
enticement  gaining  upon  him,  he  felt  too  that  he  was 
not  quite  himself,  and  wished  now  that  he  had  been 
content  to  drink  water  at  dinner.  He  decided  that  he 
would  go  out  for  a  walk  alone,  but  she  seemed  hurt 


196    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

when  he  proposed  to  do  so,  and  he  gave  up  the  idea. 
He  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  with  eyes  half  closed,  in  a 
kind  of  languor.  The  soft  curves  of  her  form,  as  she 
leaned  back  in  her  deep  chair,  appealed  to  him  as  they 
had  never  appealed  before.  He  took  her  hand  between 
his  two  hands,  and  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  little 
smile,  her  eyes  liquid  and  bright  under  their  drooping 
lashes.  Her  lips  were  slightly  parted,  and  he  could  see 
the  almost  imperceptible  rise  and  fall  of  her  breast  as 
she  breathed.  He  knew  at  that  moment  that  she 
belonged  to  him,  that  whatever  he  suggested  she  would 
comply  with.  All  consciousness  of  anything  else 
faded  from  him.  He  felt  himself  trembling,  and  his 
eyes  seemed  to  cloud  over,  while  a  slight  shiver  ran 
down  his  spine.  He  leaned  still  closer  to  her,  and  he 
felt  her  arms  go  round  his  neck  as  she  drew  down  his 
head.  He  shut  his  eyes  and  with  an  effort  as  of  a  man 
struggling  against  a  dream  started  to  his  feet.  The 
violence  of  his  movement  bewildered  her.  "  Let  me  read 
to  you,"  he  said,  catching  up  the  book  from  the  table. 
And  he  began  to  read  at  once,  the  book  opening  at  a 
poem  he  knew  almost  by  heart,  "  Porphyria*s  Lover." 

He  read  it  with  a  kind  of  sombre  passion,  and  when 
he  had  finished  she  shuddered  slightly. 

"  But  it  is  horrid,"  she  said,  "  and  you  read  it  just  as 
if — as  if  it  was  all  really  true.  Why  did  he  kill  her? 
I  don't  like  it  at  all." 

"  He  killed  her  to  keep  her  pure,"  Richard  answered 
shortly ;  "  to  save  her  from  himself  and  from  herself." 

"  Well,  don't  read  me  any  more,  if  they're  all  like 
that." 

She  laughed  uneasily,  and  he  threw  down  the  book, 
"  It  is  too  late  in  any  case.     I'm  going  out  for  a  little 


ROSE  197 

to  get  some  fresh  air  before  I  go  to  bed.  Don't  sit  up 
too  long,  for  we'll  have  to  make  an  early  start  in  the 
morning.  .  .  .  Good-night." 

He  was  gone  before  she  realized  he  was  going,  and  a 
moment  later  she  heard  his  footsteps  pass  the  window 
on  the  frozen  gravel  outside. 


VII 

On  arriving  home  next  morning  he  found  the  kitchen 
empty,  Grace  and  his  mother  being  at  church,  Martin 
evidently  still  in  bed.  When  they  returned,  Mrs.  Sea- 
wright  asked  fewer  questions  than  he  had  expected,  and 
in  his  replies  he  was  careful  to  avoid  mentioning  Rose's 
name.  How  far  his  reticence  availed  him  he  had  no 
means  of  judging,  for  his  mother,  having  once  spoken 
her  mind  on  the  subject,  had  never  afterwards  alluded 
to  his  friendship  with  the  girl,  just  as  she  had  never 
again  alluded  to  the  matter  of  Grace  and  Mr.  Campbell. 

There  came  a  ring  at  the  door,  and  he  was  about  to 
get  up  to  answer  it  when  Grace  forestalled  him,  return- 
ing with  an  envelope  which  she  handed  to  him  in  silence. 
He  tore  it  open  and  found  inside  a  perfectly  formal 
request  from  Mrs.  Jackson  that  he  would  come  round  if 
possible  that  afternoon  to  Palermo  Street.  There  was 
nothing  more  than  that;  not  the  slightest  hint  of  what 
they  thought  of  Rose's  escapade;  yet  somehow,  as  he 
read  it,  a  chill  of  foreboding  descended  upon  him,  and 
ideas  which  had  not  occurred  to  him  till  then  awakened 
in  his  mind.  He  tore  the  letter  into  fragments  and  flung 
the  fragments  into  the  Are. 

Grace  and  his  mother  were  washing  up  the  dinner 
things  when  he  slipped  out  quietly,  as  if  to  keep  some 
guilty  assignation.  At  Palermo  Street  the  door  was 
opened  by  Holly,  who  having  let  him  in  instantly  fled, 
leaving  him  standing  in  the  hall.     This  unconventional 

198 


ROSE  199 

reception  perplexed  him,  and  he  stood  staring  after  the 
vanished  Holly  when  suddenly  the  parlour  door  was 
flung-  wide,  revealing  Mr.  Lambert  Jackson,  who  from 
the  threshold  beckoned  to  him  mysteriously.  Richard 
obeyed  the  summons,  and  still  in  profound  silence  Lam- 
bert retreated  before  him  to  the  vicinity  of  the  gas-stove, 
where  he  took  up  a  position,  with  his  hands  clasped 
beneath  the  tails  of  his  coat,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on 
vacancy.  The  only  other  occupant  of  the  room  was  Mrs. 
Jackson,  who  bowed  with  a  reserved  and  melancholy 
dignity,  but  did  not  offer  any  further  greeting. 

"  I  am  glad  you  were  able  to  come,"  Lambert  re- 
marked, after  casting  an  uneasy  glance  of  interrogation 
at  his  wife.  Judging  from  appearances,  he  was  any- 
thing but  glad,  and  his  unhappiness  would  have  struck 
most  people  as  rather  comic.  Richard,  however,  was 
only  conscious  of  something  very  ominous  in  the  air. 
Mrs.  Jackson,  who  had  developed  yet  another  chin  as 
the  effect  of  her  unwonted  solemnity,  appeared  unable 
to  trust  herself  even  to  speak.  Her  silence,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  eloquent,  and  the  regard  with  which  she  fixed 
their  unhappy  visitor  was  charged  with  the  deepest 
reproach. 

Richard  looked  from  one  to  the  other  anxiously,  while 
Lambert,  with  his  pale  eyes  fixed  on  a  corner  of  the 
ceiling,  seemed  to  search  in  that  vicinity  for  promptings 
as  to  what  he  should  say  next. 

"  This  is  a  very  serious  thing,"  he  began.  "  Serious 
for  Rose,  that  is." 

Richard  stared  at  him,  but  the  Swedenborgian's 
glance  had  never  been  more  elusive,  and  wandered 
always  above  his  head. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  he  replied. 


200    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

Lambert  coughed,  and  with  great  unexpectedness 
smiled.  At  this  point  Mrs.  Jackson  also  coughed,  and 
her  husband  immediately  resumed  his  former  air. 

"  I'm  sure  it  was  the  result  more  of  thoughtlessness  on 
your  part  than  anything  else,"  he  said.  "  But  even  after 
making  all  allowances,  we  cannot  acquit  you  of  blame. 
The  fact  is  there,  no  matter  what  explanation  may  be 
offered.  .  .  .  The  fact,"  he  added,  as  if  discovering  it 
quite  suddenly,  "  that  poor  Rose  has  been  most  seriously 
compromised." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Seawright,  how  could  you  ?"  Mrs.  Jackson 
interposed,  with  a  sort  of  husky  sob,  producing  at  the 
same  time  a  much  crumpled  pocket-handkerchief,  which 
she  pressed  first  against  one  eye  and  then  against  the 
other. 

The  chill  that  had  crept  to  Richard's  heart  grew  more 
intense,  but  he  answered  nothing. 

"  And  Rose,"  Mrs.  Jackson  went  on,  "  who'd  have 
thought  she'd  have  been  so  foolish  !  Though  it  shows 
her  innocence :  it  does  indeed." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Richard  stammered 
at  last,  turning  a  very  scared,  ingenuous  countenance  to 
her;  not  at  all  the  countenance  one  would  naturally 
have  associated  with  a  wrecker  of  happy  homes.  "  It 
was  simply  an  accident,  such  as  might  have  happened 
to  anybody." 

Mrs.  Jackson  shook  her  head.  "  That  may  be,"  she 
murmured,  squeezing  her  handkerchief  more  tightly. 
"  Mr.  Jackson,  why  don't  you  say  something  ?"  she 
inquired  with  a  sudden  sharpness. 

Lambert  started  guiltily.  His  features  had  again 
relaxed  into  an  absent  smile,  and  again  had  to  be 
framed  to  a  more  becoming  gravity.     "  Yes,  yes,  my 


ROSE  20I 

dear,"  he  agreed  hastily.  "  No,  we  don't  impute  any- 
thing but  carelessness  to  you,  Richard." 

Mrs.  Jackson  darted  a  glance  of  disapproval  at  her 
husband,  who,  conscious  that  he  had  failed  somewhere, 
was  unable  to  discover  where. 

"  It  will  be  a  blot  on  her  good  name  for  ever,"  the 
lady  took  up.  "  You  might  at  least  have  thought,  Mr. 
Seawright,  of  staying  at  another  hotel." 

"  But  we  stayed  at  the  best  hotel !" 

"  That's  not  what  I  mean.  What  I  mean  is  that  you 
shouldn't  both  have  been  at  the  same  hotel.  You  ought 
to  have  taken  a  room  outside." 

"  I — it  didn't  occur  to  me." 

"  It  should  have  occurred  to  you.  After  all,  you  are 
a  man,  not  an  innocent  girl  like  my  poor  little  Rose, 
who  naturally  wouldn't  think  of  such  things." 

"  But  if  no  one  knows,  I  don't  see  why  it  is  of  such 
great  importance,"  he  argued  defensively. 

"  They  do  know."  Mrs.  Jackson  paused  a  moment  so 
as  to  make  her  next  words  the  more  impressive.  "  You 
were  seeriy  Mr.  Seawright.  You  were  seen  getting  out 
of  the  train  this  morning  by  Carry  McVinty,  and  she's 
not  one  to  let  the  grass  grow  under  her  feet  when  there's 
a  chance  of  gossip." 

Very  pale  now,  he  stared  helplessly  into  Mrs.  Jackson's 
large  face.     "  How  do  you  know  she  saw  us  ?" 

"  Rose  saw  herT 

"  She  didn't  mention  it.  I  looked  all  round  when  we 
got  out,  and  there  was  no  one  I  knew.  There  weren't 
more  than  a  dozen  people  altogether." 

"  Do  you  doubt  her  word,  Mr.  Seawright  ?" 

"  No,  of  course  not ;  but  she  may  have  been  mis- 
taken." 


202    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Do  you  think  it  likely  that  she  would  make  a 
mistake  at  such  a  time?" 

"  Yes,  it's  just  the  very  time  she  might  make  one — 
especially  if  she  was  nervous." 

Mrs.  Jackson's  head  wagged  mournfully.  "  No,  Mr. 
Seawright,  she  wasn't  mistaken.  Carry  was  there, 
though  not  on  your  platform.  She  was  there  to  meet 
the  Bangor  train  probably.  Rose  saw  her  and  she  saw 
Rose.     She  even  bowed." 

"  I'm  absolutely  certain  that  Rose  bowed  to  nobody." 

"  She  didn't.  It  would  have  been  much  better  if  she 
had.  She  thought,  I  suppose,  that  if  she  took  no  notice 
Carry  might  think  she  had  made  a  mistake.  But  Carry 
won't  think  anything  of  the  sort :  all  it  will  do  will  be 
to  make  her  more  suspicious  than  ever." 

Richard  had  a  feeling  as  of  the  meshes  of  a  net  that 
were  being  slowly  tightened  about  him.  "  What  do  you 
want  me  to  do  ?"  he  asked,  for  all  this  vagueness  was 
becoming  unbearable.  "  I  can't  help  what  happened.  I 
have  said  I  am  sorry." 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  love ;  what  do  you  want  him  to  do  ?" 
chimed  in  Lambert,  this  time  with  a  quite  irrepressible 
cheerfulness.  "  Do  you  know,  it  is  very  odd,  but  I  have 
a  distinct  impression  of  an  aura  behind  his  head — an 
aura  in  which  green  seems  to  predominate,  though  there 
are  at  least  three  colours.  It  grows  brighter  every 
instant.     It " 

"  Mr.  Jackson  !"  The  warning  note  brought  him  back 
to  actualities,  and  he  relapsed  into  silence  as  his  wife 
turned  to  Richard.  "  We  expect  you  to  behave  honour- 
ably, Mr.  Seawright.  We  trust  you.  We  expect  you 
to  behave  as  we  should  like  a  son  of  our  own  to  behave 
in  such  circumstances." 


ROSE  203 

He  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue,  and  Mrs. 
Jackson  was  suddenly  amazed  to  see  his  ears  twitch 
violently.     "  I — I  don't  understand,"  he  stammered. 

"  You  ought  to  understand,  Mr.  Seawright,"  she 
replied,  recovering  from  the  slight  shock  which  he  had 
unconsciously  given  her.  "  But  after  all,  one  simple 
question  may  solve  everything.  I  ask  you,  Mr. 
Seawright,  in  all  straightforwardness,  I  ask  you,  as  the 
mother  of  the  sweetest  girl  that  ever  breathed,  do  you 
love  my  darling  child  ?'* 

The  encouraging  note  in  her  voice,  the  sudden  sym- 
pathy of  her  expression,  which  was  yet  backed  by  some- 
thing cold  and  inexorable,  seemed  to  cut  the  ground  from 
under  his  feet.  He  knew  now,  without  any  faintest 
doubt,  what  was  expected  of  him,  though  no  response 
came  from  his  closed  lips. 

Mrs.  Jackson  fixed  him  with  small  beady  eyes,  and 
apparently  "  a  mother's  love "  read  the  by  no  means 
obvious  answer  in  his  frightened  face,  for  she  heaved  a 
fat  sigh  of  relief  as  she  rose  from  her  creaking  chair. 
"  Then,  go  to  her,"  she  cried  hoarsely,  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  emotion.  "  Do  not  keep  her  any  longer  in 
suspense.  She's  there,  waiting  for  you — in  the  back 
parlour.  Her  heart  is  yours,  she  told  me  her  little 
secret  this  morning,  and  you'll  have  a  treasure.  You 
have  won  a  heart  of  gold,  Richard,  and  true  to  the 
core." 

He  felt  himself  drawn  overpoweringly  towards  an 
immense,  heaving  area  of  beaded  black  satin,  while  an 
extremely  audible  kiss  was  imprinted  on  his  forehead. 
Dazed,  bewildered,  overwhelmed,  he  tried  to  stammer 
out  something,  but  an  encouraging  though  forcible  pat 
on  the  shoulder  moved  him  appreciably  in  the  direction 


204    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

of  the  door,  which  Lambert,  with  unusual  presence  of 
mind,  had  opened.  In  the  hall  he  again  hesitated, 
trying  to  find  words,  but  the  same  friendly  force  was 
once  more  applied,  and  next  moment  he  found  himself, 
with  the  door  pulled  to  behind  him  as  if  to  cut  off  the 
last  possibility  of  retreat,  standing  in  the  back  parlour. 


VIII 

Rose  was  at  the  window,  and  even  at  the  sound  of  the 
opening-  and  closing-  of  the  door  did  not  look  round. 
She  appeared  to  be  lost  in  contemplation  of  a  damp  and 
fulig-inous  strip  of  garden,  the  principal  feature  of  which 
was  an  elaborate  arrang-ement  of  clothes-lines.  One  of 
her  hands  crumpled  the  edg-e  of  a  rather  soiled  muslin 
curtain,  and  her  forehead  pressed  against  the  pane. 
Another  gas-stove — the  house  seemed  full  of  them — 
hummed  joyously,  in  full  blaze. 

He  took  a  step  forward.  "  Rose,"  he  murmured,  but 
still  she  kept  her  face  averted.  Then  he  crossed  the 
room  and  put  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  She  was 
trembling.  At  his  touch  she  partially  turned,  but  still 
did  not  look  at  him,  only,  as  he  drew  her  to  him,  buried 
her  face  in  his  breast.  He  saw,  he  felt,  he  knew  that  she 
loved  him,  and  for  the  time  it  made  everything  easier. 
Now,  with  her  arms  about  him,  he  felt  that  he  loved  her 
too. 

"Are  you  sure?  Are  you  sure?"  she  asked,  tears 
shining  in  her  eyes.  "  You  mustn^t  let  yourself  be 
influenced  by  papa  or  mamma.  It  doesn't  matter  what 
they  say.  I  didn't  want  them  to  say  anything — really, 
really,  Richard.  ...  I  will  tell  them  that  I  refused  you  : 
I  will  write  a  letter  and  you  can  show  it  to  them.  It  was 
all  my  fault,  and  I  don't  want  you  unless  it  comes  from 
yourself  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  what  they  may  have 
talked  about." 

205 


2o6    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Of  course  it  comes  from  myself,"  he  answered,  with 
a  tinge  of  melancholy.  "  They  don't  know  anything 
about  it." 

For  that  matter  he  didn't  know  either,  but  Rose  knew, 
and  suddenly  she  burst  into  tears  of  relief  and  happi- 
ness. He  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  drawing  her  to  him, 
and  at  the  same  time  displaced  a  folded  rug  which 
covered  a  gaping  slit  in  the  cloth.  He  moved  a  little  to 
avoid  a  projecting  spring,  and  slid  down  into  a  kind  of 
rounded  hollow  that  was  more  comfortable.  Rose's 
arms  were  clasped  about  his  neck,  and  her  fingers  passed 
through  his  dark  hair  caressingly,  while  her  joy  and 
affection  found  issue  in  a  ceaseless  babble  of  not  very 
wise  talk. 

"  But  we  won't  be  able  to  get  married  for  ages,  will 
we  ?"  she  cooed  into  his  ear.  "  It's  well  that  we're  both 
so  young."  And  she  laughed  with  a  sweet  fond  foolish- 
ness that  was  like  the  love-twitterings  of  a  bird. 

"  We  must  get  married  as  soon  as  possible,"  he 
replied. 

She  was  like  a  delicate  flower  in  the  sunshine  of  a 
still,  summer  day,  and  the  charm  of  her  prettiness,  and 
the  sweetness  of  her  caresses  hid  away  everything  else. 
But,  after  a  time,  out  of  this  love-dream  she  emerged 
with  more  practical  considerations.  His  fate  was  sealed. 
She  had  twined  herself  about  him  like  a  fair  and  fragile 
convolvulus,  soft  and  yielding,  yet  clinging  closely,  so 
that  only  a  brutal  hand  could  tear  her  away,  the  cruel 
hand  of  the  destroyer 

He  told  her  what  salary  he  earned  at  the  office — she 
already  knew  it — and  of  a  legacy  of  a  thousand  pounds 
each,  that  had  come  to  him  and  Martin  from  their 
grandfather.     She  reckoned  everything  up  and  thought 


ROSE  207 

they  could  easily  manage.  She  unfolded  countless 
plans.  He  was  amazed  indeed  at  the  rapidity  with 
which  she  developed  them.  She  knew  even  of  a  dear 
little  house  which  they  could  get  for  very  little ;  and  she 
had  her  own  savings,  almost  a  hundred  pounds.  She 
could  get  typing  to  do  at  home.  She  could  buy  a 
second-hand  machine  for  very  little,  and  what  she  would 
earn  in  that  way  would  help  them  considerably.  In  the 
midst  of  these  mingled  calculations  and  kisses  they  were 
astonished  to  hear  the  loud  ringing  of  a  hand-bell.  She 
slid  from  his  knee  and  began  patting  her  hair  hurriedly. 
"  Gracious,  that  must  be  tea  already  !  Is  my  hair  awful  ? 
You're  going  to  stay,  dear,  of  course  ?" 

In  the  other  room  an  air  of  festivity  prevailed. 
Everard  began  to  sing,  "  There's  nothing  half  so  sweet 

in  life  as "     Rose  clapped  her  hand  over  his  mouth. 

She  laughed,  blushed,  a  picture  of  radiant  happiness. 

The  whole  family  now  called  Richard  by  his  Christian 
name :  it  was  as  if  they  were  practising  it,  so  frequently 
did  it  buzz  in  his  ears.  Mrs.  Jackson  had  discarded  her 
black  satin  for  the  more  homely  dressing-gown,  out  of 
which  she  bulged  genially.  From  behind  the  tea-pot 
she  beamed  upon  him,  and  wondered  pressingly  if,  amid 
hot  barm-bracks  and  cold  apple  tart,  he  "  wouldn't  take 
an  egg"  Lambert's  white,  glistening  smile  rested  upon 
the  young  lovers  with  the  effect  of  a  benediction.  Vague 
and  celestial,  he  left  the  room  three  times  during  the 
course  of  the  meal,  returning  after  each  absence  with  a 
deeper  air  of  mystery.  No  one  quite  knew  what  he  was 
doing,  but  from  obscure  hints  it  could  be  gathered  that 
important  visitors,  who  preferred  to  linger  in  the  upper 
rooms,  were  present  on  this  happy  occasion. 

Shortly  after  nine  o'clock  Richard  went  home.     Even 


2o8    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

as  he  entered  the  house  he  was  struck  by  the  intense 
contrast  it  presented  to  the  scene  he  had  just  quitted, 
and  the  knowledge  that  he  was  bringing  a  bomb-shell 
into  its  grave  tranquillity  did  not  help  him.  His  mother 
was  nodding  over  a  book  of  sermons,  but  Grace  gazed 
straight  into  his  face  as  he  came  in,  and  he  lowered  his 
eyes.  He  pretended  to  ignore  her,  but  he  had  an  uneasy 
feeling  that  she  knew.  He  had  had  the  same  feeling 
many  times  before,  and  he  tried  now  to  work  up  a 
protective  sense  of  indignation.  He  could  not;  he 
remembered  too  much ;  remembered,  above  all,  that  after- 
noon when  he  had  blundered  about  Mr.  Campbell;  and 
a  dim  idea  that  he  was  about  to  make  her  unhappy — 
how  unhappy  he  had  no  means  of  measuring — depressed 
him. 

After  half  an  hour  Grace  left  them,  but  his  mother 
still  continued  to  doze.  Every  few  minutes  she  would 
waken  up  and  turn  a  page  of  her  book :  then  her  head 
would  begin  again  to  nod  slowly,  sinking  lower  and 
lower  towards  her  shoulder,  till  suddenly  she  would 
start  up  with  a  jerk  of  her  whole  body  and  read  another 
paragraph. 

He  told  her  abruptly  what  he  had  to  tell,  and  Mrs. 
Seawright  ceased  to  doze.  All  the  muscles  in  her  face 
tightened,  but  she  said  nothing.  He  had  not  expected 
congratulations,  yet  he  looked  at  her  disconsolately. 
"  You  do  not  know  Rose  yet,"  he  explained.  "  You  have 
only  seen  her  twice,  and  you  will  like  her  much  better 
when  you  get  to  know  her." 

"  I  never  <^ij-liked  her,"  Mrs.  Seawright  replied.  "  I 
didn't  think  she  was  the  companion  you  would  have 
chosen,  that  is  all." 


ROSE  209 

"  No.     It  is  usually  that  way,  isn't  it  ?     I  mean " 

He  did  not  complete  his  thought,  and  there  was  another 
silence,  till  suddenly  it  appeared  to  dawn  upon  him  that, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  of  his  having  announced  himself  as 
an  accepted  lover,  he  was  not  exhibiting  any  particular 
elation.  "  You  don't  really  know  Rose  yet,"  he  repeated 
feebly. 

His  mother's  eyes  rested  upon  him  quite  as  if  he  had 
not  spoken.  "  I  hope  you  have  not  entered  into  this 
blindly,  Richard,"  she  said. 

"  No." 

"  You  are  sure  ?" 

"  Of  course." 

He  tried  to  feel  ill-used,  while  his  mother  continued 
to  regard  him  with  an  expression  of  doubt.  "  Marriage 
is  a  trying  bond,"  she  went  on,  "  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
you're  too  young  to  be  thinking  of  it  at  all.  It  needs 
plenty  of  good-will  on  both  sides.  Rose  and  you  have 
very  little  in  common.  She  needs  brightness  and  amuse- 
ment, and  you  are  very  silent  sometimes.  It  will  not  do 
to  neglect  her,  for  I'm  afraid  she  hasn't  many  resources 
in  herself." 

What  she  really  felt  was  that  her  son  was  not  easy  to 
live  with,  and  she  would  have  said  so,  too,  had  Rose 
been  there  instead  of  Richard. 

"  I  must  go  and  see  her  mother,"  she  presently  added. 
"  I  think  you  should  weigh  the  matter  very,  very  care- 
fully.'* 

"  I'm  afraid  I  could  hardly  draw  back  now,  no  matter 
how  carefully  I  weighed  it,"  he  answered,  and  was 
immediately  conscious  that  the  words  sounded  all 
wrong.     "I  don't  know  that  you'll  like  Mrs.  Jackson. 

14 


210 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 


She's  not — they're  none  of  them,  for  that  matter, — much 
in  your  hne." 

"  Don't  you  Hke  her  ?"  Mrs.  Seawright  asked. 

"  Not  particularly." 

She  gazed  at  him,  and  he  found  it  more  and  more 
difficult  to  keep  from  telling  her  his  whole  story.  He 
wanted  to  tell  her  everything,  to  be  guided  by  her  and 
comforted  by  her,  but  the  habit  of  years  was  too  strong, 
and  also  a  sense  of  loyalty  to  Rose.  "  She's  not  like  you, 
mother,  any  more  than  Rose  is.  You  must  be  prepared 
for  that.  And — the  others — I'm  afraid  you'll  care  for 
them  even  less." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  about  me.  What  matters  is  that 
you  will  have  to,  accept  them.  Have  you  understood 
that  they'll  always  be  there  ?  When  a  man  marries,  it's 
his  wife's  family  that  becomes  his  family." 

"  You'll  visit  us  occasionally,  won't  you  ?"  he  smiled 
dimly. 

But  Mrs.  Seawright  could  not  smile.  "  Richard,  I 
can't  help  thinking  you're  not  really  sure  in  your 
own  mind  about  all  this.  Remember,  that  to  be  taken 
with  a  pretty  face  isn't  enough.  I'm  not  saying  anything 
against  Rose.  She  may  be  a  very  good  girl.  I  know 
nothing  at  all  to  the  contrary,  and  indeed  I  think  she 
is  good.  All  the  same  I  can't  help  feeling  that  you  have 
acted  over  hastily." 

"  Mother  dear,  I  knew  you  would  say  what  you  have 
said,  but  you  must  trust  me.  I  am  really  doing  what  is 
right." 

Mrs.  Seawright  did  not  reply.  She  had  a  strange 
sense  of  being  out  of  everything.  She  could  no  longer 
follow  the  thoughts  of  her  children,  among  whom  she 


ROSE  211 

included  Grace.  They  seemed  to  lead  lives  that  were 
independent  of  hers,  lives  which  she  could  only  watch 
as  she  might  have  watched  in  a  theatre,  had  she  ever 
entered  such  a  place,  the  fortunes  of  the  imaginary 
persons  there. 


PART   FOURTH 
GRACE 


I 

He  had  left  Rose  beside  the  peat  fire,  reading  a 
novelette,  for  the  slight  rain  that  had  begun  to  fall  had 
been  sufficient  to  make  her  give  up  all  idea  of  accom- 
panying him  on  his  walk.  They  had  been  here  for 
exactly  seventeen  days,  at  this  little  Donegal  hamlet, 
and  in  three  days  more  their  honeymoon  would  be  over. 

He  had  spent  all  morning  cooped  up  in  their  sitting- 
room,  and  now  the  salt  wet  wind  blowing  in  from  the 
sea  was  delicious.  The  two  sheep-dogs  belonging  to 
the  house,  shaggy  veterans,  wise  and  staid,  ran  on 
ahead,  every  now  and  again  pausing,  looking  round 
with  paw  lifted,  as  if  waiting  a  word  of  command.  The 
rain  had  already  cleared  off,  just  as  he  had  told  her 
it  would. 

There  were  no  hedges,  and  the  ground  on  either 
side  stretched  away,  rocky  and  dark,  a  somewhat 
sombre  and  austere  landscape,  despite  the  richness  of 
its  colour.  On  the  left  was  the  sea,  on  the  right,  amid 
sparsely-grown  pasture-land,  were  yellow  patches  of 
peat-bog,  where  pools  of  water  gleamed  and  pale  beds 
of  rushes  shivered  under  the  grey  sky.  There  were 
few  trees,  but  everything  was  softened  by  a  dreamy, 
changing  light,  which  drifted  down  through  the  low 
clouds.  Away  in  the  distance,  Muckish  Mountain  was 
half  lost  in  mist,  and  the  long  winding  road  stretched 
before  him,  white  as  chalk,  amid  the  dark  fields,  with 
their  boundaries  of  loosely-piled  stones. 

214 


GRACE  215 

Dusk  was  falling  when  he  once  more  faced  home- 
wards, and  something  of  the  elasticity  seemed  to  go 
out  of  his  step.  It  was  as  if,  rather  reluctantly,  he 
obeyed  a  call.  There  was  no  doubt  that  they  had  made 
a  mistake  in  coming  to  so  quiet  a  place.  They  had  been 
thrown  too  much  upon  themselves.  He  wondered  if 
she  felt  the  strain  as  during  the  last  two  or  three  days 
he  had  begun  to  feel  it.  And  yet  it  was  the  kind  of 
place  that  had  always  appealed  to  him.  It  was  Rose 
who  was  not  in  her  proper  setting  here.  He  knew  that 
most  of  the  time  she  was  thinking  of  her  friends,  of  her 
own  people,  and  there  were  moments  when  he  himself 
would  even  have  welcomed  a  visit  from  them.  He  had 
brought  a  few  books  with  him,  but  as  early  as  the  second 
day  his  idea  of  reading  aloud  had  proved  a  failure. 
She  denied  that  she  was  bored,  but  for  all  that  she 
would  interrupt  him  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  to 
wonder  about  the  trimming  of  a  hat,  or  to  tell  him 
something  Ivy  had  said.  She  talked  incessantly  of  her 
own  people  and  of  her  friends,  until  it  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  not  a  detail  of  their  lives  that  she  had  not 
described  half  a  dozen  times. 

When  he  returned  to  the  low,  white  farm-house,  and 
went  up  to  their  room,  he  found  her  waiting  for  him  just 
as  he  had  pictured  her.  She  had  not  even  lit  the  lamp, 
but  was  sitting  in  the  dark,  save  for  the  light  of  the 
fire,  and  her  silence,  as  he  entered,  was  a  kind  of 
reproach.  He  sat  down  beside  her,  glad  to  hear  the 
rattle  of  cups  and  saucers  which  heralded  the  approach 
of  their  evening  meal. 

After  tea,  when  they  were  definitely  alone  for  the 
evening,  an  idea  occurred  to  him.  "  Would  you  like 
me  to  read  you  something  I  have  written?     I  brought 


2i6    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

the  manuscript  with  me  because  I  thought  I  might  work 
over  it  a  bit." 

"  And  you  never  said  a  word  about  it ! "  cried  Rose. 
"  Is  it  a  story  ?" 

"  No ;  it's — just  what  I've  thought  about  things.  I 
can't  describe  it,  but  you'll  see  for  yourself." 

"  Whatever  made  you  do  it  ?"  she  wondered,  without 
enthusiasm. 

"  I  don't  know.     I  liked  doing  it." 

"  The  idea  of  keeping  it  such  a  secret !  I'm  sure  if  I 
were  to  write  down  all  Vve  thought  about  things  I'd 
never  have  done." 

Her  sweet,  foolish,  little  laugh  was,  under  the  circum- 
stances, not  particularly  encouraging,  but  he  went  into 
the  adjoining  room,  and  after  some  rummaging  at  the 
bottom  of  a  bag  returned  with  a  brown  paper  parcel. 
He  moved  the  lamp  and  put  some  fresh  turf  on  the  fire 
before  beginning  to  read. 

They  sat  close  together.  Rose  nestling  up  to  him,  her 
cheek  leaning  against  his  left  shoulder.  The  scene  pre- 
sented a  curiously  intimate  appearance.  Outside,  the 
darkness  and  wind;  within  the  room,  the  two  seated 
figures,  the  whiteness  of  the  pages  he  turned,  their  faint 
rustle,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  burning  fire  and  the 
soft  lamplight.  He  read  on  and  gradually  a  peculiar 
atmosphere  stole  out  from  the  spoken  words,  an 
atmosphere  of  which  even  Rose  was  vaguely  conscious. 
His  book  was  exactly  the  kind  of  book  a  profes- 
sional writer  would  never  have  written,  because  he  would 
have  considered  it  unsaleable.  It  was  very  personal, 
very  young,  but  made  remarkable  by  a  singularly  vivid, 
an  almost  morbid  power  of  imagery — bold,  fantastic, 
half  mad  at  times,  yet  seemingly  inexhaustible.     It  was 


GRACE  217 

as  if  everything  he  mentioned  were  alive  with  a  strange, 
watchful,  sentient  life — the  streets  and  houses,  the  very 
chairs  and  tables.  This  curious  quality  so  predominated 
over  every  other  that  it  came  at  last  to  have  a  vaguely 
disquieting  effect.  He  paused  for  a  moment  and  Rose 
said,  "  I  had  a  letter  from  mamma  this  afternoon.  She 
says  that  Mr.  McVinty  has  been  three  times  to  the 
house  since  we  left,  I  wonder  if  anything  will  come  of 
it?  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
Holly  r 

"  For  Holly  !"  He  laid  down  his  manuscript  with  an 
indescribable  dejection. 

She  smiled  and  gently  pinched  his  ear.  "  Oh,  don't 
be  so  stupid,  Ricky.  You  know  what  I  mean  very  well. 
Mr.  McVinty  has  a  splendid  position.  The  only  draw- 
back is  that  since  he  gave  up  travelling  the  town  he  is 
hardly  ever  at  home  except  for  week-ends."  She  sud- 
denly sprang  to  her  feet.  "  That  old  lamp's  beginning 
to  smoke  again.  Shall  I  ring,  or  shall  we  just  sit  in  the 
dark  ?     I'm  sure  you're  tired  of  reading  anyway." 

"  Just  as  you  like." 

She  pulled  down  the  extinguisher  and  then  nestled 
up  to  him  once  more.  He  felt  her  lips  brush  lightly 
over  his  cheek, 

"  I'm  afraid  you  find  it  very  dull  here,  Rose." 

She  moved  against  him  with  a  caressing,  almost 
feline  movement,  "What  queer  things  you  say!"  she 
laughed.  "  Fancy  anybody  finding  their  honeymoon 
dull!" 

"  Then  you  don't  feel  homesick  or  lonely  ?" 

"  No,     Such  a  question  !" 

"You're  sure?" 

"Of  course  I'm  sure.     You'll  make  me  think  you're 


2i8    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

feeling  homesick,  if  you  go  on  like  that."  She  laughed 
again.  All  trace  of  the  irritability  and  languor  that 
had  been  present  in  her  voice  earlier  in  the  day  had 
disappeared.  "  Do  you  remember  that  evening  in  the 
hotel  at  Newcastle  ?  How  frightened  we  both  were ! 
And  now  here  we  are,  just  as  we  were  then,  but  with 
nothing  to  be  frightened  about." 

He  felt  the  power  that  she  possessed  over  him 
beginning  to  stir  in  his  blood,  and  he  had  time,  before 
it  gained  upon  him,  to  resent  it,  to  dislike  it.  During 
the  past  fortnight  it  had  been  with  him  too  persistently ; 
there  had  been  nothing  else,  no  way  of  escape.  And 
he  imagined  how  different  it  all  might  have  been. 
There  was  something  in  their  intimacy  which  at  this 
moment  made  him  ashamed.  He  was  caught  in  it,  but 
he  felt  it  like  bird-lime  clinging  to  the  beating  wings  of 
his  spirit.  It  was  as  if  all  his  life  long  he  had  trembled 
in  awe  before  some  holy  and  mysterious  shrine  only  to 
find,  on  drawing  aside  a  curtain,  no  beautiful  and 
divine  figure,  but  a  primitive  image  of  wood  or  clay. 


II 

Though  neither  would  have  admitted  it  in  so  many 
words,  yet  to  both  the  ending  of  the  honeymoon  came 
as  an  immense  rehef.  Mrs.  Jackson  and  the  girls  were 
in  the  house  to  welcome  them  when  they  arrived  home. 
He  sat  talking  with  them  for  half  an  hour  :  then  went 
out  alone  to  see  his  mother. 

The  house  in  Myrtle  Row  appeared  to  be  almost 
deserted  now,  though  Bessie  had  taken  up  a  permanent 
habitation  with  Mrs.  Seawright.  First  had  come 
Martin's  appointment  to  a  post  in  London ;  then,  in  the 
summer,  following  on  the  shortest  of  engagements, 
Grace's  marriage  to  Mr.  Campbell ;  lastly,  there  had  been 
Richard's  own  marriage,  which  had  left  Mrs.  Seawright 
all  alone. 

She  had  not  expected  him,  and  he  had  slipped  in 
very  quietly.  Next  moment  his  arms  were  round  her. 
He  was  glad,  glad  to  see  her  again.  She  too  was  glad, 
he  felt,  for  she  had  been  taken  off  her  guard,  and  was 
more  demonstrative  than  usual. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Grace  ?"  he  asked,  when  their 
first  greetings  were  over. 

"  Yes.     They're  still  in  Italy." 

"  When  are  they  coming  back  ?" 

"  Hasn't  she  written  to  you  ?" 

"  No  :   she  never  writes  to  me." 

"  Well,  I'll  give  you  her  last  two  letters  and  you  can 
take  them  with  you.     She  doesn't  say  anything  about 

219 


220    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

coming  home.  They're  going  to  spend  the  summer  in 
Germany.  She  talks  about  some  musical  festival  at 
Munich." 

"  How  can  Mr.  Campbell  stay  away  so  long  from  his 
business  ?" 

"  I  suppose  his  partner  looks  after  it.  Grace  says  it 
is  his  first  holiday  for  twelve  years." 

"  He  seems  to  be  making  up  for  lost  time." 

They  sat  silent  for  a  little.  The  questions  she  wanted 
to  ask  him  could  not  be  asked,  yet  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  could  read  one  or  two  answers  as  she  watched  him. 
He  took  her  hand  between  his  two  hands,  and  stroked 
it  softly. 

"  Aren't  you  very  lonely  ?"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  was 
thinking  about  you  when  I  was  away.  I  don't  see  why 
you  can't  give  up  the  shop  altogether  and  come  and  live 
with  us." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  It  wouldn't  do,  my  lad.  I 
don't  believe  in  arrangements  of  that  sort." 

"  If  Rose  asked  you,  wouldn't  it  be  all  right  ?" 

"  No  :  so  don't  ask  her  to  ask  me.  I'm  quite  con- 
tented where  I  am." 

He  sighed.     "  Well,  of  course,  you've  got  Bessie." 

"  Yes ;  I've  got  Bessie.  .  .  .  You  haven't  asked  after 
Martin." 

"No.     How  is  he?" 

"  He  seems  to  be  flourishing,  but  he's  not  a  good 
correspondent.  He  keeps  on  sending  me  those  picture 
postcards,  views  of  the  Tower  and  Saint  Paul's,  when 
he  knows  quite  well  that  what  I  want  is  a  letter.  But 
I  suppose  he's  very  busy  and  comes  home  tired  in  the 
evenings." 

The  idea  of  Martin  coming  home  tired  in  the  evenings 


GRACE  221 

struck  Richard  as  rather  a  novelty.  He  smiled,  but  he 
accepted  the  picture,  and  his  mother  continued  :  "  You 
might  write  to  him  now  and  then.  I'm  sure  he  feels 
lonely  enough  in  that  strange  place." 

"  I've  got  nothing  to  write  about." 

"  You  ought  to  have." 

"  Nothing  that  would  interest  him.  And  I  don't 
think  you  need  trouble  yourself  about  his  loneliness. 
He  has  probably  dozens  of  friends  by  this  time." 

"  Yes,  he  always  was  one  to  make  friends,"  Mrs. 
Seawright  admitted.  "  But  I'm  sure  he'd  value  a  letter, 
and  I'm  such  a  poor  hand  with  the  pen  myself." 


in 

Those  first  weeks  of  housekeeping  were  amusing,  if 
highly  experimental,  but  gradually  they  settled  down. 
Mrs.  Jackson  came  round  daily  with  offers  of  assistance, 
and  from  the  beginning  the  entire  Jackson  family  were 
a  recognized  feature  of  his  home  life. 

The  typing  of  his  manuscript,  undertaken  by  Rose, 
had  for  a  time  given  them  an  interest  in  common.  Then 
followed  the  excitement  of  dispatching  it  to  a  publisher. 
Richard  had  read  of  the  delays  and  disappointments 
which  are  the  usual  lot  of  the  young  writer,  but  nothing 
turned  out  as  he  had  anticipated.  Within  a  fortnight 
his  book  had  been  accepted,  and  early  in  September  it 
was  published.  One  of  the  six  copies  that  had  been 
sent  to  him  he  forwarded  to  Grace  in  Germany.  It  was 
not  till  then  that  he  understood  to  whom  his  work,  all 
along,  had  been  addressed.  And  he  had  not  even 
dedicated  it  to  her.  He  had  dedicated  it  to  Rose. 
The  book,  nevertheless,  was  Grace's,  as  much  as  the  most 
intimate  letter  he  had  ever  written  to  her — it  was 
Grace's,  in  a  sense,  almost  as  much  as  it  was  his. 

Before  the  first  tardy  reviews  had  begun  to  appear — 
to  be  eagerly  devoured  by  Rose,  whose  enthusiasm,  he 
saw,  was  considerably  damped  by  their  somewhat 
patronizing  tone — ^he  had  come  to  regard  the  whole 
thing  with  indifference.  Then  he  recognized,  with  a 
kind  of  sinking  of  the  heart,  with  a  feeling  almost  of 
dread,  that  nothing  seemed  to  matter  to  him  now. 

333 


GRACE  223 

This  discovery  coincided  with  certain  domestic 
infelicities,  which  about  this  time  became  more  pro- 
nounced. It  was  natural,  of  course,  that  Rose  should 
not  wish  to  give  up  her  own  people,  but  he  felt  that  she 
might  have  given  them  up  a  little  more  than  she  did. 
Rose  herself  could  hardly  have  denied  that  Mrs. 
Jackson,  who  appeared  to  let  things  go  easily  enough 
in  her  own  house,  had  developed  a  remarkable  activity 
in  the  supervision  of  that  of  her  son-in-law.  The  first 
little  contention  had  been  occasioned  by  his  insistence 
on  two  bedrooms  and  a  study.  This,  necessitating  as  it 
did,  extra  furniture,  both  Mrs.  Jackson  and  Rose  re- 
garded as  an  extravagance.  They  did  not  say  much, 
but  Mrs.  Jackson  dropped  one  or  two  remarks  which 
appeared  to  imply  that  if  he  intended  to  live  so  separate 
an  existence  from  that  of  his  wife  he  might  almost  as 
well  not  have  married.  Richard  took  no  notice  of  the 
insinuation,  but  from  the  first  Rose's  lack  of  any  desire 
for  privacy  had  astonished  him. 

As  the  months  passed  he  noticed  other  things  which 
surprised  him  even  more.  He  noticed  that,  so  long  as 
her  outer  garments  pleased  her.  Rose  was  perfectly 
indifferent  to  her  underclothing,  and  would  put  on  a 
stocking  with  half  its  heel  out.  Considering  her 
mother's  example,  it  was  perhaps  only  to  be  expected 
that  she  should  be  a  little  untidy,  but  she  was  more  than 
that.  She  had  a  positive  genius  for  making  objects 
serve  purposes  other  than  those  for  which  they  had 
originally  been  designed.  She  liked  to  use  his  books 
as  a  wedge  for  propping  open  the  bathroom  window; 
his  pens  would  disappear,  and  on  his  writing-table  he 
would  find  articles  of  feminine  apparel,  a  hat,  a  pair  of 
soiled  gloves.     The  meals,  too,  were  nearly  always  late. 


224    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

and  the  cooking  was  bad.  Rose,  herself  a  vegetarian, 
apparently  had  no  ideas  beyond  chops  and  steaks, 
which  figured  alternately  at  each  midday  repast. 
Always  accustomed  to  work  in  an  office,  house-work 
bored  her,  and  she  spent  most  of  her  time,  so  far  as  he 
could  see — when  she  was  not  visiting  or  receiving 
visitors — in  reading  cheap  novelettes  and  magazines. 
The  whole  house  was  littered  with  them,  for  even  the 
ordinary  library  novel  seemed  to  reach  beyond  Rose's 
mental  horizon. 

But  all  these  things  would  have  been  bearable  had 
they  not  been  backed  up  by  others  about  which  he  was 
obliged  to  keep  silent.  From  his  childhood  Richard 
had  lived  with  women  whose  intelligence  was  above  the 
average.  Possibly  he  had  not  realized  it  before,  but 
certainly  he  realized  it  now,  when,  as  so  frequently 
happened,  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Jackson,  Holly,  and 
Ivy,  he  was  obliged  to  listen  to  interminable  conversa- 
tions that  appeared  to  exhaust  in  themselves  every 
possible  variety  of  triviality.  Yet  if  he  did  not  take  his 
share  in  all  that  was  going  on  he  was  brought  to  book 
afterwards,  for  Rose,  in  spite  of  a  certain  timidity  he 
had  not  ceased  to  inspire  in  her,  could  never  let  any- 
thing pass  without  an  allusion  of  some  sort.  Gradually 
they  drifted  into  a  habit  of,  not  exactly  quarrelling,  but 
bickering,  about  things  infinitely  unimportant,  and 
though  their  disagreements  were  short-lived,  behind 
each  reconciliation  was  an  erotic  impulse  of  which  he 
felt  ashamed. 

Mrs.  Seawright,  as  indeed  he  had  expected,  came  but 
seldom  to  the  house.  It  was  quite  clear  that  Rose  did 
not  care  for  her,  and  the  rest  of  the  Jacksons  liked  her 
even  less.     Moreover,  things  were  fast  drifting  towards 


GRACE  225 

a  stage  when  he  did  not  want  his  mother  to  come.  He 
saw  that  she  silently  noted  each  sign  of  untidiness  and 
discomfort,  and  he  hated  this  even  more  than  the  dis- 
comforts themselves.  He  had  made  a  mistake,  but, 
though  in  his  heart  he  admitted  it,  no  one  should  ever 
hear  him  say  so. 

In  the  meantime  letters  had  begun  to  arrive  from 

Grace.     Since   receiving   his    book    she   wrote    to    him 

punctually  once  a  week.     He  had  begun  by   reading 

passages  aloud  to  Rose,  but  after  the  second  or  third 

letter  she  had  suddenly  declared  that  she  didn't  wish 

to  hear  any  more.     He  submitted  to  her  whim  without 

demanding  any  explanation,  a  course  of  action  which 

Rose  could  never  understand,  and  resented  more  than 

if  he  had  actually  got  angry.     Thus  they  seemed  to  live 

at  cross-purposes,  and  more  and  more  she  began  to  ask 

people  to  the  house — her  own  people  and  their  friends 

— Mr.  Sprott,  the  McVintys,  the  Smiths,  others  of  the 

same  set — and  more  and  more  he  dropped  back  into  a 

kind  of  private  life.     Yet  through  all  he  knew  that  she 

loved  him. 

He  knew  it,  though  he  disliked  the  nature  of  the  tie 
that  bound  them.  In  his  ideals  he  was  almost  passion- 
ately ascetic,  but  in  his  blood  were  other  instincts  that 
seemed  equally  strong.  There  were  black  days  when 
he  felt  a  kind  of  horror  of  life.  It  seemed  to  rise  before 
him  as  something  infinitely  lonely  and  dark,  empty  and 
meaningless.  He  would  sit  staring  at  it  hour  after  hour, 
when  Rose  thought  he  was  writing.  He  could  not 
write.  He  felt  dried  up,  frozen,  and  when,  with  an 
effort,  he  dipped  his  pen  and  scribbled  a  few  sentences, 
a  hand  seemed  to  stretch  out  of  the  darkness  to  stop 
him,  and  he  would  sit  listening  to  the  sound  of  the 


226    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

hired  piano  in  the  room  below,  the  sound  of  the  vulgar, 
lilting  music  that  seemed  to  be  the  only  sort  which 
Rose's  friends  could  tolerate. 

And  yet  at  times  a  light  appeared  to  be  on  the  verge 
of  breaking;  a  pallor  trembled  along  the  edge  of  the 
dark  sky,  as  if  before  the  rising  of  some  moon  or  star. 
Then,  he  waited  and  watched  and  listened  intently — so 
intently  that  he  seemed  to  hear  the  beating  of  his  heart. 
But  the  paleness  on  the  horizon  faded,  and  the  night 
rushed  in  once  more — black,  unbroken — an  immense 
darkness  that  choked  and  clouded  his  soul.  Through 
that  enveloping  darkness  the  little  voice  of  Rose  came 
trivial  and  meaningless  as  the  tinkle  of  a  bell. 

One  morning  in  November,  as  they  sat  at  breakfast, 
he  opened  a  letter  from  Grace.  "  The  Campbells  will 
be  home  to-morrow,"  he  said,  after  glancing  at  it. 

Rose,  who  was  busy  with  her  own  correspondence, 
which  consisted  usually  of  coloured  postcards,  did  not 
reply. 

"  We  ought  to  go  and  see  them  to-morrow  evening,  I 
think." 

"  If  it's  to-morrow,  I  can't,"  she  answered,  without 
looking  up. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  have  an  engagement." 

"  What  engagement  ?" 

"  It's  Ev's  birthday  and  we're  all  going  to  the 
'  Pictures.' " 

"  Surely  you  might  be  sick  of  the  '  Pictures '  by  this 
time!" 

"Well,  I'm  not  sick  of  them.  If  you'd  let  me  know 
things  in  proper  time,  instead  of  just  at  the  last  moment, 
I  might  be  able  to  arrange  better." 


GRACE  227 

"  I  let  you  know  this  as  soon  as  I  knew  it  myself." 

"Well,  I'll  go  some  afternoon,  and  you  can  go  to- 
morrow evening." 

So  he  went  alone  to  call  upon  Grace,  and  found  her, 
too,  alone.  She  rose  from  a  chair  by  the  fire  and  came 
to  meet  him  with  an  eager  light  of  welcome  transforming 
her  face.  He  was  astonished  at  the  alteration  that  had 
taken  place  in  her  appearance,  though  he  could  not  have 
said  in  what  it  consisted.  It  was  a  year  and  four  months 
since  they  had  met,  and  his  first  impulse  was  to  kiss 
her,  but  she  only  held  out  her  hand,  which  he  grasped 
for  a  moment  and  then  let  drop.  He  sat  down,  feeling 
for  some  reason  absurdly  shy. 

"  Henry  is  downstairs,"  she  said.  "  He  will  be  up 
presently,  after  he  has  finished  talking  business  with  his 
partner,  who  dined  here  to-night.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you 
come  closer  to  the  fire  ?     It  has  been  so  cold  all  day." 

He  changed  his  seat  obediently.  "  Have  you  seen 
mother  yet  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  came  up  this  morning.     How  is  Rose  ?" 

As  they  talked  he  found  himself  watching  her  with 
an  interest  he  had  never  felt  in  anybody  before.  How 
could  marriage  have  so  altered  her  ?  The  change  was 
wonderful,  almost  incredible.  Yet  by-and-by  he  saw 
that  it  was  not  so  much  a  change  as  a  development. 
She  was  still  Grace  as  he  had  always  known  her,  but 
with  something  added.  Mentally,  spiritually,  she  had 
expanded,  had  opened  out,  like  a  flower  in  the  sun. 
And  the  sun,  he  supposed,  was  just  the  opportunity  of 
coming  under  influences  which  her  narrow  life  in  a  pro- 
vincial town  had  withheld  from  her.  He  had  recognized, 
it  now  seemed  to  him,  from  ever  so  far  back,  that  the 
capacity  was  there;  but  nobody  could   have  foretold 


228    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

its  30  rapid  evolution.  In  the  old  days,  he  thought,  he 
had  been  ahead  of  her;  now  it  appeared  to  be  just  the 
other  way. 

For  an  hour  they  talked,  talked  for  the  most  part 
about  old  times,  and  for  a  little  about  his  book,  which 
she  appeared  to  know  nearly  by  heart.  Then,  as  Mr. 
Campbell  still  failed  to  make  an  appearance,  he  asked 
her  to  play  to  him.  She  had  been  studying  hard,  she 
told  him,  had  taken  lessons,  and  had  practised  a  good 
many  hours  a  day ;  and  from  the  first  note  he  felt  that 
her  playing,  too,  had  become  subtly  different. 

As  she  sat  at  the  piano  it  gave  him  a  further  oppor- 
tunity to  watch  her,  and  to  clarify  his  impression.  She 
was  older,  wiser;  her  imagination,  her  sympathies,  had 
broadened  and  deepened.  It  seemed  to  him  now,  as 
something  unpardonably  stupid,  that  he  could  never  in 
the  past  have  appreciated  her.  Mr.  Campbell  had 
chosen  well;  he  could  have  secured  no  more  admirable 
companion  for  himself  and  his  growing  children  than 
this  remarkable  and  delightful  woman. 

This  conviction  grew  stronger  with  each  visit  he  paid 
at  the  house.  She  had  not  a  wide  circle  of  acquaint- 
ances, and  he  often  marvelled  at  the  patience  and 
sweetness  with  which  she  tolerated  some  of  those  he 
happened  to  meet  in  her  drawing-room.  Intellectually, 
they  were  immeasurably  her  inferiors,  yet  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  detected  an  insufferable  air  of  patronage  in 
their  politeness.  They  had  called  upon  her  because 
they  were  friends  of  her  husband's.  They  could  not 
grasp — how  should  they,  with  their  narrow,  stupid  little 
minds? — that  she  was  a  creature  infinitely  more 
civilized  than  they  were.  All  that  they  could  under- 
stand was  that  she  had  once  handed  out  stamps  and 


GRACE  229 

given  change  in  a  post  office.  This  attitude  enraged 
him.  He  imagined  that  they  found  even  in  her  mastery 
of  the  art  she  had  studied  something  professional  and 
unladylike.  On  the  whole  he  preferred  the  attitude  of 
Mrs.  Wilberforce,  who  remained  severely  at  a  distance. 
Mrs.  Wilberforce,  for  her  old  friend  Mrs.  Seawright's 
sake,  would  have  called  upon  Grace  had  it  been  pos- 
sible. But  it  wasn't.  She  knew  that  on  the  doorstep 
she  should  be  confronted  by  the  phantom  of  the  out- 
raged General,  waving  a  flaming  sword  in  her  path, 
like  the  angel  at  the  gate  of  Eden ;  and  though  the  girls 
were  not  married  yet,  and  their  prospects  seemed  to 
narrow  with  each  year  that  drifted  monotonously  by, 
she  could  not  have  borne  to  see  them  in  Grace's 
drawing-room,  or  seated  at  Grace's  dinner-table. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Mrs.  Campbell's  visitors 
were  few,  and  that  far  more  often  than  not  Richard 
found  her  alone.  Their  old  relations  were  resumed,  but 
with  a  difference ;  and  the  difference  was  not  merely  one 
of  altered  surroundings,  of  what  Grace  had  made  of  the 
house,  though  she  had  been  wonderful  here,  too. 
Coming  into  it  was  like  entering  a  place  of  infinite 
peacefulness,  where  his  nerves  were  rested,  and  his  mind 
and  spirit  could  breathe  freely.  He  remembered  that 
he  had  composed  his  book  while  listening^  to  her  music ; 
he  remembered  many  things;  and  the  friendship  that 
now  opened  out  before  him  seemed  to  him  to  mark  a 
new  period  in  his  life. 


IV 

It  was  never  without  prolonged  deliberation  that  Mrs. 
Seawright  could  make  up  her  mind  to  go  to  see  her 
son's  wife.  To-day,  for  instance,  as  she  set  forth,  she 
knew  exactly  the  annoyance  she  should  experience  from 
the  moment  she  entered  the  house,  and  all  that  she 
should  still  further  suffer  from  the  forced  repression  of 
her  disapproval.  She  flattered  herself  that  no  audible 
comment  upon  the  state  of  things  prevailing  there  had 
ever  yet  passed  her  lips,  but  her  i/^audible  comments 
were  more  eloquent  than  she  imagined.  To  poor  Rose, 
indeed,  her  visits  were  nothing  else  but  one  endless 
comment,  and  she  usually  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  when 
they  came  to  an  end. 

On  this  particular  occasion  Mrs.  Seawright  discovered 
that  the  dinner-things  were  still  upon  the  table,  though 
it  was  nearly  five  o'clock.  She  also  noticed  the  soiled 
cloth,  with  a  feeling  of  acute  disgust,  carefully  turning 
her  back  to  it  as  she  sat  down. 

She  began  by  inquiring  after  Rose's  health,  and  Rose 
answered  with  a  sort  of  weary  inattention.  It  was 
obvious  that  something  more  than  a  mere  consciousness 
of  unwashed  dishes  weighed  upon  her  mind.  Apparently 
she  had  been  sitting  in  perfect  idleness,  probably  with 
her  elbows  on  the  crumby  cloth,  ever  since  dinner. 
She  talked  languidly,  and  with  frequent  silences,  during 
one  of  which  she  startled  Mrs.  Seawright  by  suddenly 
beginning  to  wipe  her  eyes,  using  for  the  purpose  a 

230 


GRACE  231 

pocket-handkerchief  whose  dampness  suggested  that 
the  present  tears  were  not  the  first  she  had  shed  that 
afternoon. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Mrs.  Seawright  demanded, 
with  a  somewhat  stoical  air.  "  Have  you  and  Richard 
been  quarrelling?" 

"  He  won't  quarrel,"  Rose  said,  between  her  sobs. 
"  He  just  sits  as  if  you  weren't  there." 

"  He  always  was  sulky,"  the  mother  admitted. 

"  He  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more  :  I  know  he  doesn't. 
To-day,  just  because  the  steak  was  tough  he  wouldn't 
eat  it,  and  went  back  into  town  without  any  dinner. 
It  isn't  my  fault  if  the  butcher  sends  tough  meat." 

"Well,  well;  you  musn't  take  it  too  seriously." 

"  If  he'd  only  get  really  angry  it  would  be  better  than 
the  way  he  is :  it  would  show  at  any  rate  that  he  was 
like  other  people." 

"  He's  like  enough  most  men  if  he  thinks  a  good  deal 
of  his  stomach,"  Mrs.  Seawright  returned  sententiously. 
"  A  man  must  get  his  meals  properly  if  there's  to  be  any 
comfort  in  the  house.  And  as  to  being  peculiar — you 
knew  what  he  was  before  you  married  him."  She 
brought  out  these  painfully  truthful  observations  with 
a  tranquillity  that  made  Rose  detest  her. 

"  I  didn't  know  he  was  as  queer  as  he  is,"  she  retorted. 

"  Even  as  a  child  he  was  more  given  to  brooding  over 
things  than  to  talking  about  them,"  said  Mrs.  Seawright. 

"  Well,  he  needn't  brood  all  the  time.  Sometimes 
he'll  sit  through  a  whole  meal  without  saying  a  word. 
And  he  never  tells  me  anything.  I  might  as  well  not 
be  here.  If  I  ask  people  to  the  house  he'll  go  and  shut 
himself  up  in  his  own  room  half  the  evening.  The  other 
night  I  went  into  his  study  and  there  he  was  in  the  dark. 


2^2         AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

doing  nothing,  just  sitting  there;  and  he  must  have 
been  that  way  for  hours.  It's  dreadful.  You'd  almost 
think  he  had  something  on  his  conscience." 

This  picture  of  her  son's  habits  was  more  disquieting 
to   Mrs.   Seawright   than   she   allowed    Rose   to   guess. 
The  whole  thing  hung  vividly  before  her,  filling  her 
with  uneasiness,  and  even  with  alarm.     It  produced  in 
her,  at  the  same  time,  a  feeling  of  impatience  with  her 
daughter-in-law,  a  light  creature,  who,  in  spite  of  her 
tears,  did   not  in  the  least   realize  the   seriousness  of 
what  rattled  so  glibly  off  her  tongue.     And  probably 
she  talked  to  other  people  even  more  freely.   ''  Richard's 
a  good  boy,"  she  announced  quietly.     "  When  people 
want  to  find  fault,  they'd  far  better  begin  with  them- 
selves." 
"  I'm  not  finding  fault,"  cried  Rose,  indignantly. 
"  Well,  what's  all  the  trouble  then  ?     It's  surely  some- 
thing more  than  a  mere  matter  of  a  spoiled  dinner." 

A  slightly  sullen  expression  came  into  Rose's  face. 
"  I  don't  want  to  make  any  accusations,"  she  muttered. 
"  You'd  far  better  make  them  to  me  than  to  other 
people.     You  must  remember  Richard  is  my  son." 

"  I  wasn't  the  first  to  think  of  it,  any  way,"  Rose 
burst  out  irrepressibly,  "or  to  speak  about  it  either. 
Martin  told  me  himself — at  least  he  hinted  at  it — 
months  ago.  I  didn't  think  it  mattered  then  :  I  thought 
it  must  be  all  over." 

"What  must  be  all  over?"  asked  Mrs.  Seawright, 
coldly. 

Rose  hesitated.  "  Between  him  and  Grace,"  she  said 
below  her  breath. 

Mrs.  Seawright's  high  colour  took  a  deeper  tinge. 
She  maintained,  however,  the  same  unemotional  atti- 


GRACE  ^  233 

tude,  and  Rose  watched  her,  now  that  she  had  uttered 
the  fatal  words,  like  a  frightened  child. 

"  So  you  discussed  such  things  with  Martin  !  That 
wasn't  very  wise." 

"  I  didn't.  T  didn't  discuss  anything.  He  just  said 
they  used  to  be  always  together." 

"When  did  he  say  that?" 

"  The  last  time  he  was  over." 

Mrs.  Seawright  paused.  When  she  spoke  again  she 
brought  each  word  out  with  an  extreme  deliberation. 
"  If  he  said  anything  that  need  trouble  you,  he  told  a 
lie.  Why  shouldn't  they  have  been  together,  living  in 
the  same  house  as  they  were?  Wouldn't  it  have  been 
a  strange  thing  if  they  hadn't  been  friends  ?" 

Rose  shrank  back  a  little.  "  I  didn't  say  there  was 
any  harm,"  she  faltered.  "Only  now  he's  married  he 
oughtn't  to  go  and  see  her  so  often.  He's  always  there. 
I  don't  know  how  Mr.  Campbell  likes  him  to  be  in  and 
out  of  the  house  that  way.  Grace  perhaps  hasn't 
thought;  but  other  people  must  notice  it." 

"  Grace  always  thinks,"  replied  Mrs.  Seawright. 
"  So  you  want  them  not  to  be  friends  any  longer ! 
What  do  you  do  for  him  ?  Look  at  all  this  mess  ! " 
She  turned  in  disgust  to  the  neglected  dinner-things, 
of  which  never  for  a  moment,  in  spite  of  having  kept  her 
back  to  them,  had  she  lost  consciousness. 

"  You're  unkind,"  Rose  sobbed.  "  You've  always 
disliked  me." 

Mrs.  Seawright  stretched  out  her  hand  and  grasped 
that  other  so  much  slighter  hand  firmly,  but  not  roughly. 
"  Don't  let  yourself  say  things  you'll  be  sorry  to 
have  said  later.  I'm  not  unkind.  I'm  not  pretending 
that  Richard  has  been  all  that  he  should  be:   I  don't 


234    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

know.  Tm  not  saying  he  is  easy  to  live  with :  I 
never  thought  you'd  find  him  so.  What  I  do  say  is 
that  you  must  dismiss  all  thoughts  of  jealousy  from 
your  mind,  or  you'll  never  be  happy.  If  Richard  had 
cared  for  Grace  in  the  way  he  cares  for  you  they  had  all 
those  years  to  come  to  an  understanding  in.  And  if 
they  didn't  do  so,  then  you  needn't  alarm  yourself  now. 
Whatever  his  faults  may  be,  you  can  trust  him.  You'd 
know  better  what  that  means  if  you'd  ever  had  to  live 
with  the  other  sort.  He  never  looked  at  a  girl  in  his 
life  until  he  looked  at  you.  Don't  try  to  make  mischief 
between  them  :  it  will  only  lead  to  unhappiness — and  it 
is  of  you  I  am  thinking  when  I  say  so.  .  .  .  You  have 
these  fancies  because  you  are  not  well,"  she  added  more 
gently.  "  You'll  see,  if  you  have  patience,  that  all  will 
turn  out  right  in  the  end.  But  there  must  be  give  and 
take  on  both  sides.  .  .  .  Come ;  let  me  help  you  to  clear 
up  all  this."  And,  stooping  over  Rose,  she  administered 
a  friendly  peck  in  the  middle  of  her  cheek. 

For  ten  minutes,  amid  the  swish  of  water  and  rattle 
of  crockery,  little  more  passed  between  them. 


Mrs.  SeawrigHT's  opinion,  which  she  had  not  divulged 
to  anyone,  was  in  the  event  justified,  the  arrival  of  the 
mysterious  stranger  putting  everything  upon  a  new  and 
more  satisfactory  footing.  The  father,  as  he  gazed  upon 
this  curious  creature,  with  its  wrinkled  visage,  and  eyes 
like  deep  forest  pools,  was  filled  with  a  mingled 
astonishment  and  happiness.  The  mother  found  a  new 
interest  in  life,  simpler  and  deeper  than  any  she  had 
yet  known.  A  tiny  cloud  appeared  in  the  horizon  when 
she  expressed  a  desire  to  bestow  upon  her  son  the  name 
of  Lambert  Jackson,  for  to  Richard  this  was  an 
unpleasant  reminder  that  it  was  not  unmixed  Seawright 
blood  which  flowed  in  the  child's  veins;  but  the  cloud 
passed  and  the  baby  was  called  after  his  father. 

Each  of  the  grandmothers  discovered  that  he  took 
after  her  own  family,  and  Rose  every  day  found  still 
obscurer  resemblances  to  persons  who  certainly  bore  no 
likeness  to  one  another.  She  even,  one  day,  produced 
the  alarming  theory  that  baby  was  "  the  image  "  of  Ev, 
which  gave  Richard  a  startled  moment  until  a  hurried 
inspection  brought  him  relief.  The  baby  resembled 
nobody,  and  as  he  became  more  comely  he  still  main- 
tained his  individuality.  But  from  the  beginning  he 
was  surrounded  by  a  Jackson  atmosphere.  The  Jackson 
grandmother  was  perpetually  on  the  spot,  holding  him 

235 


236    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

sprawling  in  a  capacious  lap;  and  when  he  began  to 
enjoy  perambulator  exercise,  his  daily  excursion  almost 
invariably  ended  at  the  house  in  Palermo  Street,  where 
he  disembarked  and  became  for  an  hour  or  so  the  centre 
of  female  flutterings.  In  the  presence  of  others  Richard 
took  very  little  notice  of  his  son,  but  when  he  was  alone 
with  him  he  was  interested  intensely.  One  day,  coming 
in  and  discovering  Rose  nursing  the  child,  he  saw  her 
in  an  altogether  new  light.  He  had  entered  softly,  and 
she  had  not  heard  him.  She  was  singing  to  the  baby 
and  rocking  it  gently  to  and  fro,  while  the  light  of  an 
infinite  tenderness  looked  out  from  her  eyes.  There 
was  something  in  the  simplicity  and  naturalness  of  the 
picture  that  gave  it  beauty,  and  it  dawned  upon  him 
that  this  was  the  real  Rose.  Presently  she  put  the  baby 
down  on  a  rug  on  the  floor,  where  he  lay  on  his  back, 
with  screwed-up  eyes,  laughing  and  kicking  lustily. 
And  the  mother  sang  and  laughed  too,  and  said 
ridiculous  things  that  the  baby  apparently  under- 
stood. 

Rose  had  begun  to  Uye  her  true  life.  Before,  she  had 
been  like  an  artist  who  has  not  discovered  his  vocation. 
The  baby  was  Rose's  vocation.  She  had  a  girl  in  to 
help  her  now  with  the  house,  and,  though  the  girl  was 
refractory  and  far  from  brilliant,  everything  went  more 
smoothly  than  in  the  past.  When  Richard  came  home 
for  dinner  there  were  long  stories  about  baby;  foolish, 
pointless  stories,  but  full  of  interest  and  charm ;  whereas, 
in  the  past,  poor  Rose's  conversation  could  scarcely  have 
laid  claim  to  either  of  those  qualities.  He  had  recog- 
nized, even  in  the  days  of  his  courtship,  that  she  had  a 
mind   which   seemed   quite   incapable   of  rising   above 


GRACE  23; 

personalities.  Now  she  was  personal  about  baby,  and 
nothing  could  have  been  more  delightful.  She  was,  he 
discovered,  beneath  everything,  amazingly  simple  and 
guileless.  She  possessed  no  knowledge  either  of  good 
or  evil.  Baby  alone  had  been  able  to  break  a  small 
loophole  in  the  walls  of  conventionality,  and  Rose  could 
peep  through  this  at  one  tiny  corner  of  the  real.  Visitors 
came  much  less  frequently  to  the  house,  for  baby,  what- 
ever effect  he  produced  upon  his  parents,  undoubtedly 
bored  Mr.  Sprott,  the  Smiths,  and  the  McVintys. 

Grace,  too,  sank  into  the  background.  Richard  still 
went  to  see  her,  but  he  found  her  less  sympathetic  than 
before,  while  to  his  child,  had  it  not  been  an  absurdity, 
he  might  have  imagined  that  she  had  taken  a  dislike. 
She  listened,  she  smiled,  when  the  conversation,  seldom 
through  any  inquiry  of  her  own,  turned  in  that  direction, 
but  at  the  same  time  she  seemed  to  withdraw  into 
herself,  and  would  take  the  first  opportunity  to  change 
the  subject.  He  never  guessed  that  there  were  moments 
now  when  in  his  parental  complacency  he  infuriated  her, 
when  he  struck  her  as  having  taken  an  immense  stride 
towards  the  commonplace. 

Of  course,  when  she  went  to  see  Mrs.  Seawright,  baby 
was  again  upon  the  carpet,  served  up  cold,  as  it  were, 
with  a  sauce  of  grandmotherly  sentiment.  Once  she  had 
even  met  the  whole  family — father,  mother,  and  son — 
on  their  way  to  visit  Granny  Seawright,  and  Richard 
had  been  walking  beside  the  perambulator,  with  one 
hand  resting  upon  it.  It  had  been  horrible,  horrible; 
the  blood  had  burned  in  her  cheeks  for  long  after  they 
had  passed  out  of  sight.  She  thought  it  disgusting  to 
see  any  man  in  such  a  position;  but  Richard  ! — he  v/as 


238    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

the  last  in  the  world !  When  she  got  home  she  sat 
down  at  the  piano  and  played  Chopin's  waltzes  with  a 
sort  of  fury,  till  in  the  middle  of  one  of  them  she  burst 
into  tears.  With  white,  convulsed  face,  she  rushed  to 
her  room  and  flung  herself  face  down  upon  the  bed. 


VI 

As  time  passed  the  little  Richard — ^who  was  called 
Dick — grew  apace,  until  he  reached  the  stage  when  he 
could  perform  such  wonderful  feats  as  blowing  out 
matches  or  "  showing  his  new  shoes."  A  few  months 
later  he  learned  to  say  several  words,  and  was  able  to 
hold  long  conversations  with  his  mother.  He  could 
indeed,  though  his  vocabulary  was  so  limited,  by  that 
time  express  almost  as  many  and  very  much  the  same 
ideas  as  poor  Rose  herself.  He  had  now  the  smoothest 
skin  imaginable,  hair  like  silk,  and  eyes  like  the  fish- 
pools  in  Heshbon. 

The  passage  of  time  was,  for  his  parents,  marked 
almost  exclusively  by  his  various  exploits ;  such  of  them, 
at  least,  as  indicated  further  steps  toward  a  state  of 
Christian  responsibility.  One  or  two  other  events,  of 
minor  importance,  had  occurred.  Holly  was  engaged 
to  Mr.  McVinty;  Ivy  had  rejected  Mr.  Sprott; 
Grace  had  played  at  two  or  three  concerts,  and — just  a 
few  weeks  ago — given  her  first  recital  at  the  Bechstein 
Hall  in  London. 

One  evening  in  July  Richard  returned  from  the  office 
much  later  than  usual.  He  had  not  been  home  all  day, 
because,  Rose's  maid  having  left  her  at  a  moment's 
notice,  it  was  considered  more  convenient,  until  she  could 
get  someone  else,  that  he  should  take  his  meals  in  town. 
He  did  not  find  her  either  in  the  parlour  or  the  kitchen, 
but  upstairs,  by  Dick's  cot. 

^39 


240    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Is  he  asleep  ?"  he  asked,  lowering  his  voice. 

Rose  had  her  back  turned  to  him.  "  He  is  not  well," 
she  answered. 

Richard  tiptoed  across  the  room  and  bent  down  over 
the  small  green  bed,  listening  to  Dick's  breathing,  which 
seemed  uneasy,  with  now  and  then  a  noisy  catch  in  it. 
The  child's  face,  too,  was  puckered  into  an  expression 
of  physical  discomfort.  "  What  can  have  happened  ?" 
he  wondered.     "  Has  he  been  like  this  for  long  ?" 

"  No ;  it  came  on  about  half  an  hour  ago,  quite 
suddenly." 

"  And  was  he  all  right  before  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Perhaps  he  has  caught  cold." 

"  I  don't  know.  ...  I  think  you'd  better  get  a 
doctor.       I'm  going  to  try  burning  the  carbolic." 

She  was  pale,  but  quite  self-possessed,  more  so  indeed 
than  Richard.  He  hurried  to  the  doctor's  but  came 
back  without  him.  Rose  was  sitting  in  much  the  same 
position  as  when  he  had  left  her,  though  Dick  was  no 
longer  in  bed.  She  had  wrapped  him  in  a  bundle  of 
blankets  and  was  holding  him  in  her  arms.  The  smell 
of  carbolic  was  thick  on  the  air.  In  the  candlelight 
her  shadow  moved  softly  to  and  fro  on  the  flowered 
wall,  as  she  rocked  backward  and  forward,  with  a  quiet, 
rhythmic  motion.  She  looked  up  at  him,  with  parted 
lips,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  He'll  be  here  very  soon.  He  was  out  when  I  called, 
but  they  knew  where  he  was  and  rang  him  up  on  the 
telephone." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  get  somebody  else  ?" 

Her  voice  sounded  to  him  curiously  cold.  "  Do  you 
think   so  ?     A   few   minutes   surely   can't    make   much 


GRACE  241 

difference.     He  may  only  be  cutting  another  tooth  or 
something." 

"That  wouldn't  affect  his  breathing." 

He  was  about  to  start  out  again,  but  at  that  moment 
the  doctor  arrived,  an  elderly  man,  who  had  attended 
Rose  at  the  time  of  the  baby's  birth.  She  watched  him 
now  with  strained,  shining  eyes  that  seemed  very  large 
in  her  white  face.  The  doctor — rather  anxious  to  get 
back  to  an  interrupted  game  of  bridge — was  breezy  and 
optimistic.  He  found  Dick  heavy,  feverish,  and  croupy 
perhaps;  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  alarmed  at.     His 

temperature   was   too   high   and Just   then    Dick 

began  to  cough,  and  the  doctor  became  more  attentive. 

"  If  you  listen,"  said  Rose,  "  you  can  hear  a  sort  of 
whistling  in  his  breathing." 

The  doctor,  naturally,  had  been  listening.  "  Yes, 
yes ;  bronchial."  He  proceeded  to  give  instructions  and 
his  words  were  followed  with  an  attention  that  could 
not  have  been  deeper  had  he  been  the  Angel  of  the 
Annunciation.  Compared  with  that  listening  silence, 
his  breezy  manner  seemed  fussy  and  shallow  as  the 
buzzing  of  a  fly. 

"  I  expect  that  he'll  fall  asleep  and  you'll  find  him 
much  better  in  the  morning.  I'll  call  round  first 
thing." 

He  departed  on  his  motor,  thinking  of  the  No  Trump 
hand  he  had  been  obliged  to  abandon — a  sure  thing, 
and  it  had  been  doubled  and  redoubled.  Richard  went 
to  the  chemist's. 

When  he  came  back  Rose  was  once  more  bending 
over  the  cot.  He  tried  to  persuade  her  that  the  doctor 
had  said  there  was  no  need  to  be  alarmed,  but  she  only 
gazed  at  him,  as  if  unable  to  understand. 

16 


242    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  You  must  go  to  bed,"  he  told  her  at  last.     "  I'll  sit 

up." 

"  What's  the  good  of  my  going  to  bed  ?  I  couldn't 
sleep.     I'd  rather  stay  here." 

He  saw  it  was  useless  to  try  to  persuade  her.  "  Well, 
I  think  then  I'd  better  turn  in  myself.  He  may  have 
to  be  watched  to-morrow  night  too." 

He  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  "  The  doctor 
didn't  really  seem  to  think  there  was  much  the  matter," 
he  said  gently. 

Early  in  the  morning  she  awakened  him  out  of  a 
troubled  sleep.  "  Come  quickly,"  she  said.  "  Dick  is 
worse." 

He  hurried  into  the  next  room.  The  face  of  the 
sleeping  child  had  altered  considerably,  even  in  the  few 
hours  that  had  elapsed  since  he  had  seen  him.  It  was 
slightly  swollen  and  the  lips  were  livid.  At  every 
breath  there  was  a  catching  in  the  chest,  while  the  cough 
had  become  more  frequent.  Yet  his  temperature,  so 
Rose  assured  him,  appeared  to  have  gone  down.  Only, 
with  each  breath,  there  now  came  that  catching, 
whistling  sound. 

"  You  must  go  again  for  the  doctor,"  Rose  said. 

He  put  on  some  clothes  and  went,  running  most  of 
the  way.  Presently  she  heard  them  at  the  door. 
Then,  side  by  side.  Rose  and  Richard  stood,  with 
beating  hearts  and  pale  faces,  watching  the  man  on 
whom  so  much  depended,  while  he  made  his 
examination. 

This  time  it  was  more  prolonged,  and  they  knew  that 
the  case  must  be  serious.     The  doctor  looked  up. 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  not  so  well.  It  is  a  case  of  broncho- 
pneumonia.    We  must  do  our  best,  and  he  has  a  very 


GRACE  243 

good  chance,  of  course,  though  just  now  there  is  some 
danger." 

Richard  gazed  at  him.  "  But  what  can  have  brought 
it  on  ?"  he  whispered. 

"  He  must  have  caught  cold  in  some  way.  There 
may  have  been  a  dehcacy.  .  .  .  Any  Httle  thing  might 
be  the  cause.     One  can  never  tell." 

Rose  had  not  moved,  but,  when  the  doctor  was  gone, 
she  sank  down  beside  the  bed,  and  across  it  looked  at 
Richard  with  strange,  dilated  eyes. 

"  He  will  die,"  she  said  in  a  low,  husky  voice,  her  hand 
clutching  the  iron  rail  of  the  cot.  And  it  was  as  if, 
in  all  the  horror  of  prevision,  she  had  pronounced  the 
child's  doom. 


VII 

For  a  few  weeks  after  that  small  pilgrim  had  returned 
to  the  unknown,  from  which  he  had  so  rashly  emerged, 
Rose  and  Richard  seemed,  in  their  sorrow,  to  be  more 
closely  united  than  they  had  ever  been  before.  Their 
relations  were  for  the  first  time  untainted  by  selfishness, 
were  distinguished  by  a  mutual  kindness,  a  desire  on 
the  part  of  each  to  bring  to  the  other  what  consolation 
might  be  possible.  And  every  week  they  took  flowers 
to  the  grave,  planting  a  rose-tree  by  the  plain  marble 
cross  which  commemorated  the  fact  that  the  unfortunate 
Dick  had  found  time  to  embrace  the  tenets  of 
Christianity  during  his  so  brief  sojourn  on  our  planet. 

On  a  Saturday  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  October, 
on  their  way  to  the  cemetery,  they  turned  aside  with 
the  intention  of  looking  in  for  a  few  minutes  at  Myrtle 
Row.  Near  the  gate  they  met  Mrs.  Wilberforce,  who 
had  just  come  out  of  the  shop.  Richard  lifted  his  hat 
and  would  have  passed  on  after  Rose  had  not  Mrs. 
Wilberforce  stopped  him,  by  holding  out  her  hand.  "  I 
was  so  sorry  to  hear  of  the  little  boy's  death,  Mr.  Sea- 
wright,"  she  said,  sympathetically. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  for  he  hated  to  speak  of  what 
had  happened. 

"  He  was  such  a  dear  little  fellow,  too.  I  saw  him 
once  when  he  was  with  your  mother,  and  another  day  I 
stopped  to  speak  to  him  outside.  It  was  down  at 
Whitehead.     I  don't  suppose  your  wife  knew  who  1  was, 

244 


GRACE  245 

but  I  couldn't  help  stopping  for  a  minute,  he  looked  so 
charming.  It  must  have  been  just  before  he  was  taken 
ill." 

"  Yes." 

For  a  moment  his  mind  remained  blank,  and  then  a 
horrible  suspicion  shot  across  it.  He  escaped  from  Mrs. 
Wilberforce  as  quickly  as  he  could  and  went  on  in  to 
his  mother's  house. 

At  the  sound  of  his  step  Rose,  who  had  been  sitting 
down,  got  up  instinctively,  her  face  white  as  chalk.  He 
stood  still  for  a  moment;  then  mechanically  bent  down 
and  kissed  his  mother.  Mrs.  Seawright  turned  from 
one  to  the  other,  startled  by  Rose's  extraordinary 
appearance. 

"  When  were  you  at  Whitehead  ?"  he  asked  abruptly, 
"  and  what  were  you  doing  there  ?" 

She  began  to  tremble;  her  frightened  eyes  were  the 
only  living  things  in  her  strained,  frozen  countenance. 
But  at  the  sound  of  her  son's  voice  Mrs.  Seawright  took 
a  step  towards  Rose,  as  if  to  intervene  between  them. 

"  Why  are  you  speaking  to  her  like  that,  Richard  ? 
Can't  you  see  how  you've  frightened  her !  What  is  it. 
Rose  ?" 

Rose  seemed  unconscious  of  anybody  but  Richard. 
The  fear  in  her  eyes,  however,  had  been  more  than 
enough  for  him,  and  he  did  not  need  his  mother's 
warning  as  he  turned  away.  Rose,  on  her  side,  tried 
to  speak,  but  the  words  stuck  in  her  throat.  Next 
moment  her  hand  slid  from  its  grasp  of  the  deal  table 
and  she  sank  in  a  heap  of  black,  crumpled  draperies 
upon  the  stone  floor.  Richard  lifted  her  and  carried 
her,  light  almost  as  a  child,  to  the  sofa.  There  she  lay, 
perfectly  inanimate,  while  the  mother  and  son  did  all 


246    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

they  could  think  of  to  bring  her  back  to  consciousness. 
Presently  her  eyes  opened,  and  she  looked  at  that 
moment  so  fragile  that  one  could  imagine  a  puff  of  wind 
extinguishing  for  ever  the  thin  flame  of  life  that  flickered 
in  her  breast. 

Yet  almost  immediately  she  began  to  speak,  rapidly, 
breathlessly,  ignoring  Mrs.  Seawright's  presence  so  com- 
pletely that  it  was  doubtful  if  she  were  really  conscious 
of  it.  "  I  didn't  tell  you  because  I  knew  you  wouldn't 
like  it,  and  I  didn't  think  it  was  worth  while  annoying 
you.  And  then  when  baby  got  worse  I  was  frightened 
to  tell.  ...  I  didn't  think  there  would  be  any  harm; 
and  Martin  was  going  back  so  soon  that  when  he  asked 
me  to  spend  the  day  with  him  I  thought  it  would  be 
unkind  to  refuse.  You  weren't  coming  home  for  dinner, 
and  it  looked  such  a  bright  morning.  I  thought  it 
would  do  baby  good,  the  sea-air.  It  was  only  when  we 
got  there  that  the  weather  seemed  to  change.  .  .  . 
And — it  all  came  on  so  suddenly.  You  don't  know 
how  I've  suffered.  It  seemed  like  a  judgment  because 
I  had  told  a  lie.  But  if  it  was,  it  was  cruel.  I  didn't 
mean  any  harm.  There  was  no  harm  in  it.  I  wanted 
to  tell  you,  but  I  kept  putting  it  off,  and  after  baby's 
death  it  seemed  impossible.  I  thought  you  would 
hate  me  if  I  told  you — that  you  would  think  it  was 
my  fault — and  it  wasn't.  When  I  saw  that  lady 
speaking  to  you,  I  knew  she  would  tell  you.  What  did 
I  do  more  than  anyone  else  would  have  done  ?  Martin 
was  going  back  to  London  in  a  day  or  two  and  he  was 
all  alone.  And  I  said  'no  *  at  first,  even  though  I  felt 
it  was  unkind.     Still,  I  did  say  *  no.'  " 

It  was  Mrs.  Seawright  who  interrupted  the  torrent  of 
words   that   flowed,   almost   without   a   break   between 


GRACE  247 

them,  from  Rose's  white  hps.  "Nonsense,  child:  of 
course  he  knows  it  wasn't  your  fault.  If  God  had  not 
wanted  your  boy  He  would  not  have  called  him. 
Richard  is  not  thinking  of  blaming  you.  The  cruellest 
in  the  world  wouldn't  do  that."  She  turned  to  her  son, 
who  had  remained  absolutely  motionless  and  silent. 
"  Tell  her  you  understand ;  that  you're  not  angry,"  she 
commanded  him  sternly,  but  he  still  stood  there  in  per- 
fect quiet,  and  Rose  gave  a  httle  moan,  while  tears  ran 
down  her  cheeks. 

"  He'll  never  forgive  me,"  she  wailed.  "  I  knew  he 
wouldn't.     Never — never — never." 

Richard  stooped  and  kissed  her,  but  his  movements, 
his  expression,  were  like  those  of  one  under  an  hypnotic 
influence.  He  obeyed  his  mother;  he  forgave  Rose;  he 
kissed  her,  put  his  arms  about  her ;  but  there  was  no  life 
in  any  of  these  actions.  And  Rose  clung  to  him, 
sobbing,  burying  her  face  in  his  breast.  .  .  . 

Thus  it  was  that  the  way  of  their  existence  dropped 
in  a  single  hour  to  a  lower  plane.  That  bright  brief  life 
proved  after  all  wasted ;  for  if  Dick  had  brought  peace 
with  him,  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he  had  now  taken  it 
back  again  to  his  mysterious  abode. 

Yet  Richard  had  forgiven  Rose.  He  was  even  ready 
to  admit  that  there  was  nothing  to  forgive,  that  she  had 
been  little,  if  at  all,  to  blame.  What  was  it  then,  within 
him,  that  remembered  and  resented  ?  Nothing,  he 
would  have  answered ;  for  Rose  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Martin,  and  it  was  only  Martin  whom  he  had  not  for- 
given. It  was  curious  why  his  brother's  share  in  this 
misfortune  should  appear  to  dwarf  everything  else,  for, 
after  all,  he  must  have  known  that  Martin's  agency  had 
been  as  unconscious  as  that  of  Rose  herself.     Yet  he 


248    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

could  not  forget  it.  He  brooded  over  it,  and  it  became 
like  a  shadow  which  lengthens  as  the  sun  sinks  lower, 
till  at  last  it  reached  out  and  out  and  seemed  to  poison 
even  his  memory  of  Dick.  For  each  time  he  thought  of 
Dick  he  thought  of  Martin,  and  after  a  while  the  fact 
that  his  brother  had  acted  but  the  part  of  an  involuntary 
agent  seemed  almost  to  cease  to  matter,  and  in  the  end 
not  to  matter  at  all.  Once,  as  he  sat  late  at  night  over 
a  book,  which  he  had  not  been  reading,  the  nature  of 
his  thoughts  suddenly  flashed  upon  him,  and  he  was, 
for  an  instant,  appalled  at  the  revelation.  With  all  the 
strength  of  his  will  he  struggled  to  get  rid  of  this 
obsession  before  it  was  too  late,  and  he  ceased  to  accom- 
pany Rose  when  she  went  to  the  cemetery,  and  as  far  as 
possible  he  ceased  to  think  of  his  dead  son. 

Yet  some  baleful  influence  had  stolen  into  his  mind, 
for,  though  he  had  acquitted  Rose  of  all  blame,  somehow 
the  mere  fact  that  she  had  been  with  Martin  now 
coloured  all  his  thoughts  of  her.  It  was  nothing,  he 
would  have  said,  nothing  at  all,  this  impalpable  shadow 
that  had  crept  between  them;  yet  day  by  day,  and 
month  by  month,  it  forced  them  apart.  And  he  noted,  or 
imagined  he  noted — for  everything  now  moved  in  this 
dim,  transforming  light  of  imagination  :  — he  noted  that 
Rose's  own  sorrow  for  the  child  was  healing  more 
rapidly  than  he  had  ever  believed  it  would.  By  Christ- 
mas she  seemed  to  him  to  be  almost  what  she  had  been 
before  Dick's  birth.  The  only  difference  was  in  her 
appearance.  She  had  certainly  grown  thinner,  and  with 
this  a  likeness  to  her  father,  to  her  sisters,  which  he  had 
never  even  suspected  to  exist,  and  which  was  still  faint 
and  remote,  became  for  the  first  time  visible.  She  had 
not  lost  her  colour;  on  the  contrary,   it  was   deeper, 


GRACE  249 

though  not  so  dehcate,  as  of  old;  but  her  cheeks  had 
grown  hollow,  and  her  features  sharper,  and  the  soft 
curves  of  her  form  which  had  once  been  so  attractive 
were  rapidly  disappearing.  With  these  changes  had  come 
an  increasing  restlessness  of  manner.     She  now  seemed 
always,  when  he  saw  her,  either  to  have  just  come  in, 
or,  with  her  hat  on,  to  be  just  on  the  point  of  going  out. 
And  her  laugh  had  grown  shriller  and  more  frequent; 
it  got  upon  his  nerves.      He  accompanied  her  nowhere. 
This  was  the  situation  which   Mrs.   Seawright  had 
come  to  view  with  foreboding,  and  for  some  reason, 
though  there  might  appear  to  be  less  excuse  for  Rose's 
behaviour  now  than  before,  she  no  longer  found  herself 
upon   Richard's    side.     She    remembered    the   jealousy 
which  Rose  had  once  exhibited,  and  which  had  then 
seemed  so  unwarrantable.     After  Dick's  birth  she  had 
become  aware  of  a  slight  estrangement  which  appeared 
to  have  sprung  up  between   Richard   and   Grace,  and 
secretly  she  had  been  pleased  to  see  it.     She  had  been 
the  more  glad,  perhaps,  because  it  had  awakened  in  her 
a  vague  doubt — a  suspicion  that  Rose's  attitude  had 
not    been    so    unjustifiable    as    she    had    at    one    time 
imagined  it  to  be.     If  Grace  had  drawn  back  (and  she 
knew  that  it  was  Grace  who  had  done  so)  it  could  only 
be  because   she  was  herself  jealous.     And  jealous   of 
what  ? — of    the    child !     This    subtlety    of    reasoning 
brought  her  little  comfort,  but  it  had   received   over- 
whelming support  on  the  single  occasion  when  she  had 
seen  Grace  and  Dick  together.     Richard  and  Rose  had 
left  him  with  her  that  day  for  an  hour,  as  they  some- 
times did,  and  Grace,  happening  to  come  in,  had  been 
called  upon  to  admire  him.     And  of  course  she  had 
admired    him,    she    had    admired    him    vividly,   spec- 


250    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

tacularly,  and  been  even  more  enthusiastic  than 
the  occasion  demanded.  Yet  her  interest,  her 
dehght,  had  somehow  not  prevented  Mrs.  Sea- 
wright  from  getting  an  impression  that  they  covered 
an  emotion  deeper  still — an  impression — ugly,  unnatural 
as  it  might  seem — that  she  regarded  the  child  with  an 
intense,  an  unconquerable  aversion. 

The  discovery  had  given  Mrs.  Seawright  a  profound 
shock.  It  seemed  to  her  so  revolting  that  she  could  not 
bear  to  think  about  it.  It  undermined  her  entire  con- 
ception of  Grace's  character,  and  she  asked  herself  now 
if  she  had  ever  really  known  her.  Taken  in  conjunction 
with  her  marriage  to  Mr.  Campbell,  it  opened  up  depths, 
indeed,  which  the  mother  had  neither  the  desire  nor  the 
ability  to  fathom.  Her  whole  relation  to  Grace  from 
that  moment  underwent  a  change,  and,  after  Dick's 
death,  her  uneasiness  increased,  as  the  months  passed, 
and  she  divined,  for  she  had  no  positive  information, 
that  Richard  and  Grace  had  once  more  drifted  into  their 
old  intimacy.  Her  sympathies  veered  round  entirely 
to  Rose.  If  only  Rose  had  been  different !  But  every 
time  she  went  to  the  house  she  was  struck  afresh  by  the 
hopelessness  of  that  establishment.  She  thought  of 
speaking  to  Richard ;  she  thought  of  speaking  to  Grace ; 
but  what  could  she  say  ?  She  had  nothing  except  her 
sense  that  they  were  all  drifting  towards  an  irretrievable 
and  unthinkable  disaster,  and  her  one  hope  now  lay  in 
the  fact  that  the  Campbells  were  again  talking  of  going 
abroad. 


VIII 

As  the  long,  mild  winter  seemed  about  to  pass  into  the 
first  green  tenderness  of  spring,  there  came,  unex- 
pectedly, at  the  very  end  of  February,  a  keen  frost  much 
appreciated  by  the  Campbell  children.  After  an  early 
lunch  they  had  sallied  forth  bravely,  each  with  a  pair 
of  brand-new  skates,  and  Grace,  seated  by  the  fire,  was 
considering  whether  she  mightn't  herself  go  and  watch 
them  for  half  an  hour,  when  the  silence  was  broken  by 
the  ring  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  gravel  of  the  drive. 
It  was  too  early  for  ordinary  visitors,  and  the  instant 
she  heard  a  man's  step  in  the  hall  she  knew  it  must  be 
Richard.  He  came  in,  bringing  with  him  an  icy  breath 
from  the  frozen  world  outside,  and  his  brown  face, 
glowing  with  the  healthy  sting  of  the  cold  dry  air,  was 
very  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

"All  alone!"  he  said  gaily.  "I  thought  I  should 
catch  you." 

"  You  very  nearly  didn't.  The  children  have  gone 
skating  and  I  had  just  made  up  my  mind  to  go  and 
watch  them." 

"  A  holiday  ?" 

"  Yes  :  it  is  Jim's  birthday — a  day  of  excitement  and 
joy.  The  skates  were  a  present  from  me,  and  their 
father  is  going  to  take  them  to  see  '  Peter  Pan ' 
to-night." 

"  Where  are  they  now  ?'* 

"Oh,  just  on  that  pond  beside  the  golf-links.     The 

251 


252    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

ice  mayn't  be  very  good,  but  at  least  they  can't  drown 
themselves  there.  Why  are  you  having  a  holiday, 
Ricky  ?     It  isn't  your  birthday." 

"  I  came  to  take  you  to  Ballydrain.  The  car  is 
waiting  at  the  door." 

"  To  Ballydrain  !     What  am  I  to  do  there  ?" 

"  You're  to  skate  with  me  and  then  drive  home 
again." 

"  My  dear  Ricky,  I  haven't  been  on  the  ice  for  years, 
and  I'm  not  even  sure  that  my  skates  are  here." 

"  Well,  tell  somebody  to  look  for  them." 

She  hesitated,  walking  to  the  window  and  looking 
out. 

"  Don't  be  long.  It's  a  glorious  afternoon."  And 
sitting  down,  he  stretched  out  his  feet  to  the  bright 
wood  fire. 

"You  take  things  so  for  granted!"  she  exclaimed, 
hesitating  still,  yet  already  half  yielding. 

He  laughed  happily.  She  had  not  seen  him  like 
this  for  months  and  months,  and  it  carried  her  back 
with  a  rush  to  other  years. 

"  Don't  be  long,"  he  repeated,  and  at  the  repetition 
of  his  words  she  yielded  so  far  as  to  go  and  make 
inquiries  about  her  skates. 

In  five  minutes  she  came  back  to  him,  buttoning  her 
gloves,  though  a  slight  feeling  of  uncertainty  seemed 
still  to  linger  in  her  mind. 

"  Have  you  been  home  ?"  she  asked,  with  vague 
thoughts  of  Rose. 

"No."  He  divined  the  cause  of  her  indecision,  and 
added,  "  Nothing  would  induce  Rose  to  venture  out 
in  such  weather.  She's  more  afraid  of  cold,  I  think, 
than  of  anything  else  in  this  world." 


GRACE  253 

The  car  was  standing  at  the  door  in  the  clear  grey 
and  gold  afternoon,  the  horse's  breath  congealing  as  it 
blew  out  into  the  frosty  air,  the  jarvey,  in  a  heavy  coat, 
slapping  his  arms  vigorously  across  his  chest  and 
stamping  on  the  ground. 

"  But "    she    murmured    doubtfully,    as    Richard 

held  out  his  hand  to  help  her  up. 

"But  what?"  he  smiled.  "We  don't  so  often  have 
weather  like  this  that  we  can  afford  to  waste  it.  There 
has  been  nothing  like  it  since  the  year  we  all  learned  to 
skate." 

"  You  mean  the  year  you  and  Martin  learned.  I 
never  did  and  never  shall." 

"  I'm  going  to  teach  you  this  afternoon." 

He  laughed  again  at  her  timidity,  and  there  was 
something  in  his  vitality,  his  high  spirits,  that  overbore 
her  feeble  resistance.  She  submitted  half  reluctantly, 
yet  with  an  intense  pleasure,  and  next  moment  he  had 
pulled  the  rug  over  her  knees  and  climbed  up  himself. 

They  drove  rapidly  along  the  smooth  road,  the  steps 
of  the  trotting  horse  ringing  out  with  a  metallic  clear- 
ness in  the  still  air.  She  wore  a  thick  veil,  and  warm 
furs  wrapped  her  throat,  so  that,  in  the  absence  of  wind, 
she  did  not  even  find  the  drive  too  cold.  On  the 
contrary,  she  felt  stimulated  by  it,  and  when  they  turned 
in  at  Ballydrain  gate  the  last  shadow  of  her  scruples 
had  disappeared. 

The  scene  that  met  their  eyes  was  bright,  gay, 
animated.  Overhead,  the  cold  grey  sky  was  already 
streaked  with  the  scarlet  of  an  early  sunset,  against 
which  the  leafless  trees  stood  out  black  and  naked.  The 
lake  stretched  from  its  wooded  banks,  white,  with  a 
thin  crisp  coating  of  snow,  which  crackled  like  powdered 


254    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

crystals  under  the  steel  blades  of  the  skates.  A  low 
continuous  hum  rose  from  the  ice,  growing  rapidly 
louder  as  they  approached  the  bank.  Everybody 
seemed  happy  and  amused.  Beginners  flapped  about 
like  large  ungainly  birds  with  clipped  wings;  the  more 
proficient  glided  along  in  rhythmic,  effortless  curves. 
Boys,  with  lowered  heads  and  arms  waving  like  wind- 
mills, dashed  recklessly  in  all  directions,  to  the  terror 
of  the  nervous. 

He  knelt  beside  her  and  secured  her  skates :  then  he 
put  on  his  own  and  she  stood  timidly  watching  him  for 
a  minute  or  two  while  he  made  a  preliminary  trial  of 
his  skill.  How  easily  he  did  everything  like  this  !  His 
beauty  had  never  appeared  to  her  to  be  more  wonderful 
than  at  that  moment.  The  wintry  background  threw 
into  relief  his  warm  brown  colouring,  and  the  grace  of 
his  movements  was  delightful  to  watch.  She  blundered 
to  him  as  he  held  out  his  hands,  not  trusting  herself, 
frightened  to  strike  out,  and  he  laughed  softly.  Then 
he  grasped  her  hands  firmly  and  they  started. 

She  let  herself  go,  losing  all  fear  in  the  consciousness 
of  his  strength  and  skill,  though  a  dozen  times  she 
would  have  fallen  had  she  been  alone.  On  every  side 
came  the  murmur  of  voices  and  laughter.  Bright  spots 
of  colour — the  hats,  the  dresses  of  girls — took  on  a 
strange  brilliance  against  the  background  of  dark  trees 
and  frost-bound  woodland.  A  sea  of  life  seemed  to 
catch  her  up  on  its  strong,  exhilarating  tide.  She  had 
a  sense  of  freedom,  of  space,  of  motion  rapid  and  easy 
like  the  flight  of  birds.  And  she  was  side  by  side  with 
Richard,  her  hands  clasped  in  his  hands,  her  body 
swaying  with  his.  She  was  rapt  in  the  exquisite  happi- 
ness of  being  alone  with  him,  so  close  to  him.     It  was  as 


GRACE  255 

if  they  were  alone  together,  yet  were  breathing  the 
pleasure  of  all  those  other  skaters,  an  atmosphere  of 
joyousness  warm  as  sunlight,  wherein  her  own  joy  lived 
deliciously.  When  he  spoke  to  her,  and  she  turned 
slightly,  she  looked  straight  into  his  dark  eyes;  and 
their  bodies  seemed  to  blend  together  in  one  being  as 
they  sped  on  towards  the  flaming  sunset. 

She  half  closed  her  eyes,  she  did  not  look  where  they 
were  going;  they  were  skating  in  a  dream  from  which 
she  would  never  awaken.  All  her  love  for  him  seemed 
to  wrap  about  them,  to  isolate  them.  He  must  feel  it; 
he  must;  for  she  felt  it  herself  so  intensely  that  it 
thrilled  through  every  fibre  of  her  body.  She  smiled  up 
at  him  through  a  mist.  She  had  forgotten  Rose,  had 
forgotten  Mr.  Campbell,  had  forgotten  everything  save 
the  present  hour.  She  loved  him,  she  was  with  him,  she 
would  be  with  him  all  that  evening  if  he  came  back  to 
dinner  :  that  was  at  the  centre  of  her  consciousness.  .  .  . 
She  would  not  go  to  the  theatre,  she  could  easily  find  an 
excuse.  Richard  would  dine  with  them,  and  when  the 
others  had  gone  she  would  play  to  him.  They  would 
be  cosy  and  warm,  with  a  blazing  fire  and  drawn 
curtains.  The  happiness  of  long  hours  to  come  mingled 
with  the  happiness  of  the  present.  The  room,  filled  with 
music,  and  silence,  and  firelight,  rose  before  her,  as  if 
she  had  invoked  it  by  a  spell. 

"  Ricky,  you'll  come  back  with  me,  won't  you  ?  I've 
got  some  new  music  that  I  want  you  to  hear.  Besides, 
I'll  be  all  alone,  for  I  know  I  shall  be  far  too  tired  to  go 
out  with  the  others." 

"Yes,  ril  come.  It  isn't  so  bad,  after  all,  you 
see."     He  laughed,  and  she  laughed  in  answer. 

"  Oh,  I  wanted  to  come." 


256    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  And  you're  getting  along  famously.  You  can  skate 
quite  well." 

"  I  can't,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  Dear  Ricky,  this  will 
be  my  last  afternoon  on  the  ice." 

"  What  nonsense  !     We'll  come  to-morrow." 

"  No — no ;  it  wouldn't  do.  And  the  day  after  to- 
morrow the  frost  will  have  gone,  for  another  five 
years." 

"  We  must  make  the  most  of  it  then." 

"  Aren't  we  doing  that  ?" 

"  Well,  I'm  happy,  at  any  rate." 

"  So  am  I.  I  wonder  if  there  are  people  who  are 
happy  like  this  all  the  time  ?  Wretches ;  I'm  sure  they 
don't  deserve  to  be.  What  nonsense  I'm  talking.  You 
mustn't  listen  to  me.  Chopin  could  have  written  a 
skating  ballad — all  this  is  a  Chopin  rhythm.  Don't  you 
hear  it  ?     It's  the  most  wonderful  tune." 

"  You'll  play  it  for  me  when  we  get  back." 

"  Yes,  I'll  play  it  for  you.  I  can't  really  play  to 
anyone  but  you.  When  I  played  in  London  I  pretended 
you  were  there.  Look  at  that  girl — the  one  with  the 
red  hat — doesn't  she  skate  well?  She's  quite  plain  at 
ordinary  times,  but  now  she's  almost  beautiful.  She 
moves  just  like  a  plant  swaying  in  water.  She  must 
have  music  in  her  to  move  like  that.  She  is  beautiful, 
you  know.  That  is  the  way  you  move;  you  ought  to 
ask  her  to  skate  with  you." 

"  All  right.  Shall  I  leave  you  here  or  take  you  back 
to  where  we  started  from  ?" 

"  I  told  you  not  to  listen  to  me.  No,  I  must  rest,  or 
my  feet  will  ^\\^  way.  .  .  .  Look,  there's  the  moon 
rising  over  the  trees!  .  .  .  Ricky,  I  can't  go  on;  my 
ankles  are  getting  weaker  and  weaker."     She  laughed 


GRACE  257 

like  a  child  that  does  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  to 
cry. 

And  in  the  evening,  deliciously  tired,  as  they  sat  over 
the  fire,  it  was  just  as  she  had  pictured  it;  and  she  let 
herself  sink  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  net  of  strangely 
mingled  happiness  and  sadness  which  had  wrapped 
itself  about  her. 

He  took  up  a  book  she  had  been  reading,  a  volume 
of  Renan,  turning  the  pages,  while  she  watched  him  with 
a  faint  smile  upon  her  lips. 

"  Why  don't  you  like  him  ?"  she  asked,  teasingly,  in 
the  old  way. 

"  I  suppose  because  I  can't." 

"  Don't  you  think  him  serious  enough  ?" 

"  You  know  very  well  what  I  think." 

"  But  how  can  he  be  so  preoccupied  with  religion  if 
he's  not  serious  ?" 

"  You  can  amuse  yourself  with  religion  as  well  as  with 
anything  else,  I  suppose.  Yozi  only  read  him  for 
amusement." 

She  smiled.  "  But  that  seems  to  me  so  wrong  and  so 
prejudiced  !     Why  shouldn't  I  be  amused  ?" 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  All  the  same,  religion  is  either  the 
one  great  reality  of  life,  or  it  is  nothing.  .  .  .  The  other 
day  I  stopped  to  listen  to  a  Salvationist  who  was 
preaching  at  a  street  corner.  It  was  crude,  vulgar,  from 
your  point  of  view  absurd  :  but  behind  it,  for  all  that, 
was  a  great  spreading  flame — he  had  seen  God.  He 
knew — he  knew  :  — and  it  was  wonderful.  It  was  like 
listening  to  someone  trying  to  play  '  Tristan '  on  a 
mouth-organ.  In  that  entire  crowd  he  was  the  one  thing 
real.     I  and  the  others  were  the  shadows,  the  squeaking 

V 


258    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

ghosts  gibbering  before  the  leaping  flame  of  life,  that 
we  had  neither  the  courage  nor  the  imagination  to 
believe  in." 

She  listened  to  the  low,  deep  sound  of  his  voice  with 
a  strange  pleasure,  though  what  he  said  seemed  to  her 
childish  and  ridiculous.  When  he  ceased  speaking  she 
answered  nothing. 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  room — a  silence  so  prolonged 
that  it  might  have  followed  upon  some  momentous 
confession — yet  nothing  really  had  been  said  to  which 
Grace  was  not  profoundly  indifferent.  All  these  things 
she  had  settled  for  herself  years  ago,  and  she  was  not 
thinking  of  them  now.  She  was  thinking  of  their 
childhood — of  him,  Ricky,  the  playmate  of  her  child- 
hood, whom  even  then  she  had  loved — that  beautiful, 
strange,  sullen  boy.  ...  He  was  the  first  to  speak,  but 
she  did  not  hear  what  he  was  saying,  so  filled  was  she 
with  the  dream  that  for  hours  she  had  been  living  in. 
Her  head  drooped  a  little,  and  at  last  rested  against 
his  shoulder.  She  saw  his  beautiful  dark  face,  and  his 
beautiful  eyes,  in  which  a  smouldering  light  burned. 
She  pressed  her  cheek  against  him  and  all  her  spirit 
trembled.  She  felt  that  he  was  very  near  to  her.  The 
warmth  of  his  breath  went  past  her  forehead.  Then 
she  drew  his  head  down  and  her  lips  pressed  softly 
against  his  cheek. 

She  felt  him  draw  back,  not  roughly,  but  almost 
mechanically.  She  looked  at  him,  and  suddenly  she 
knew  that  he  was  thinking  still  of  what  he  had  been 
speaking  of.  She  knew  that  when  she  had  kissed  him 
she  had  really  kissed  only  her  dream.  In  his  eyes 
there  was  a  strange  innocence.  He  had  not  understood, 
or  if  he  had  understood  he  had  only  been  kind  and 


GRACE  259 

gentle.  Her  passion  had  blown  upon  him,  but  it  had 
been  like  a  breath  upon  a  mirror,  passing  like  a  breath. 

He  became  aware,  nevertheless,  of  something  peculiar 
in  the  atmosphere  about  him,  and  he  moved  uneasily, 
pushing  back  his  chair.  A  suggestion  had  at  last 
reached  him,  but  as  yet  only  vaguely,  and  he  put  it 
from  him.  Grace  did  not  speak,  but  sat  gazing  into  the 
fire.  In  front  of  them,  above  the  chimney-piece,  hung 
one  of  Gustave  Moreau's  pictures,  and  he  looked  at  its 
splendid  colour,  and  the  picture  seemed  part  of  that 
vague  suggestion,  part  of  that  curious  atmosphere,  as 
of  a  dangerous  drug.  It  represented  Saint  George  in 
the  act  of  killing  the  dragon.  The  background  was  a 
dark  sinister  landscape  of  steep  rocks  and  cliffs. 
Above  the  cliffs  rose  a  grey  tower,  and  by  the  tower 
there  was  a  crowned,  kneeling  lady,  like  some  strange 
idol,  whose  long  slender  hands  were  folded  in  prayer. 
The  dragon  writhed,  half  dead,  by  a  pool  in  the 
shadow  of  the  rocks.  Saint  George,  on  his  white  horse, 
had  pierced  it  with  his  lance.  The  horse  was  splendid, 
superb,  with  blue  trappings  and  flaming  tail,  but 
Saint  George  was  only  a  young  and  slim  knight  in 
armour,  with  pale  floating  hair  and  paler  face.  His 
bent  head  was  backed  by  a  yellow  halo,  and  his  face 
was  pale  with  some  fever  or  evil  dreaming,  that  was 
burning  his  life  away,  and  had  already  drawn  dark 
shadows  under  his  eyes.  The  whole  picture  was  full  of  a 
sick  and  wasting  passion,  a  kind  of  sickness  of  the  soul. 

Suddenly  Grace  got  up.  "  I  must  play  to  you,"  she 
murmured,  "  and  keep  my  promise.  What  would  you 
like?" 

But  without  waiting  for  his  answer  she  began 
Chopin's  thirteenth  prelude. 


26o    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

She  played  very  softly,  in  a  kind  of  undertone,  but 
she  played  as  he  had  never  heard  her  play  before.  An 
intense  longing,  a  desire,  unhidden  yet  conscious  of  its 
hopelessness,  seemed  to  have  passed  into  the  music.  It 
was  not  music  that  he  listened  to,  but  the  torture  and 
the  resignation  of  a  spirit.  There  was  no  cry  in  it,  no 
passion,  no  reproach  :  — it  was  only  very  quiet.  And  it 
produced  in  him  an  enervation  of  his  whole  being.  The 
black  days  of  his  boyhood,  old  griefs,  old  desires, 
crowded  about  him,  the  terrible  incompleteness  of  his 
life.  Again  he  looked  at  the  picture,  but  the  picture 
and  the  music  now  seemed  one.  Why  should  he  have 
happiness  ?  He  had  learned  to  do  without  it.  Only, 
this  music  tore  open  half-healed  wounds,  and  reminded 
him  of  what  he  wanted  to  forget.  .  .  .  With  her,  too, 
he  thought,  it  had  been  like  this. 

She  finished,  and  then  began  again — the  same  music 
— always  the  same. 

"Stop!"  he  cried  abruptly,  and  she  stopped  at  once, 
turning  her  head  a  little  and  looking  at  him  timidly. 

But  his  face  wore  a  strange,  almost  resentful  expres- 
sion, which  she  did  not  understand.  She  looked  into 
his  eyes — far — far.  It  was  like  looking  into  an  eternal 
night  in  which  her  vision  wandered  and  was  lost — a 
blackness  that  stretched  back  and  back.  Her  soul, 
naked  and  shivering,  seemed  to  stand  on  the  fringe  of 
that  darkness,  as  a  suicide  by  the  edge  of  a  pool.  To 
plunge,  to  plunge  down,  and  in  drowning  find  the  last, 
the  only  peace !  Her  soul,  shivering  and  weak,  cried 
out  to  him  :  "  I  love  you — I  love  you.  .  .  ."  The  cry 
was  stifled  and  lost :  it  came  back  to  her  smothered  and 
thin  as  from  an  infinite  distance. 

While  she  stood  there  submissively  before  him,  the 


GRACE  261 

thought  of  her  unhappiness  and  of  her  possible  happi- 
ness came  to  him  as  the  subtlest  of  temptations.  In  a 
world  of  shadows  what  could  it  be  but  one  shadow 
more,  and  why  should  he  withhold  it  ?  He  took  a  step 
forward  with  the  air  of  a  somnambulist  whose  mind 
and  purpose  are  caught  in  the  obscure  grip  of  a  dream. 
At  the  same  instant,  reading  his  wavering  thoughts,  she 
held  out  her  arms  to  him  and  their  lips  met.  With 
that,  indeed,  came  a  moment  of  fear.  But  as  he  kissed 
her — as  he  clasped  her  to  him  and  felt  her  arms  tighten 
about  his  body — the  despairing  passion  of  her  answer- 
ing kiss  seemed  to  cut  off  sharply  the  last  possibility 
of  retreat. 


PART   FIFTH 
THE   FLIGHT 


One  evening  Rose  heard  of  the  visit  to  town  of  a 
certain  Madame  Paula,  who  could  reveal  the  most 
secret  things,  and  foretell  the  future.  Such  items  of 
news  were  not  uncommon  in  her  father's  house,  so  that 
when  Carry  McVinty  related  several  tales  of  Madame 
Paula's  achievements,  they  were  solemnly  discussed, 
and,  though  nobody  professed  to  believe  in  them, 
all  felt  that  there  must  be  something  in  the  stories,  or 
how  could  they  have  originated?  Rose  struggled  for 
a  week  against  temptation  :  — then,  as  Madame  Paula's 
imminent  departure  was  announced  in  the  morning 
paper,  she  yielded. 

She  came  away  from  the  prophetess's  house  with  a 
sense  of  humiliation  and  dejection,  slipping  out  into 
the  street  stealthily,  and  hurrying  on,  with  lowered 
head,  till  she  had  turned  the  corner.  If  Richard  were 
to  hear  of  her  visit  how  angry  he  would  be !  The 
woman  was  an  impostor,  a  vulgar,  common  cheat.  .  .  . 
Certain  words  repeated  themselves  in  Rose's  brain  as  she 
walked  home  in  the  cool  spring  afternoon — words  that 
were  the  answer  to  a  direct  question.  ...  "  You  will 
not  have  another  child." 

Why  had  she  gone  ?  She  felt  degraded,  miserable. 
The  blue  sky,  the  white  clouds,  the  tender  green  of 
budding  trees,  the  April  sunshine,  meant  nothing  to 
her.  What  floated  before  her  was  the  memory  of  that 
odious    Httle    parlour,    of    that    odious    woman.     She 

264 


THE  FLIGHT  265 

wished  she  could  wipe  it  all  from  her  mind,  as  a  child 
wipes  the  figures  from  a  slate;  but  it  was  impossible. 
And  perhaps  Madame  Paula  was  genuine — in  spite  of 
the  smell  of  beer  and  onions — perhaps  she  did  know. 
Otherwise,  wouldn't  she  have  said  quite  different 
things — things  to  please  her  and  make  her  come 
back? 

She  walked  on  home,  with  the  dreary,  stupid,  little 
secret  she  should  never  tell,  locked  in  her  breast.  Yet 
why  should  she  care?  Richard  no  longer  loved  her. 
Something  had  come  between  them.  She  did  not  know 
what  it  was,  but  she  felt  it — it  was  there,  like  a  dense 
black  fog  that  struck  a  chill  to  her  heart  when  she  tried, 
futilely,  to  penetrate  it;  that  choked  her  and  blinded 
her,  so  that  she  could  only  draw  back,  shivering  and 
bewildered. 

The  old  ways  of  finding  distraction  were  closed  to 
her — or,  rather,  they  had  ceased  to  bring  distraction. 
She  felt  older,  she  looked  older.  She  was  fast  losing 
her  prettiness,  if  she  had  not  already  lost  it.  Her  cheeks 
had  grown  hollow,  and  the  colour  in  them  was  no  longer 
natural.  The  first  time  she  had  used  artificial  aids  to 
recapture  a  reflection  of  her  lost  brilliancy,  she  had  felt 
as  if  she  were  committing  a  secret  sin.  She  no  longer 
felt  that ;  she  "  made  up  "  now  as  deliberately  as  if  she 
were  to  appear  behind  the  footlights ;  but  what  purpose 
did  it  serve?  Whom  did  she  hope  to  please?  For, 
though  her  thin  face  might  glow  like  any  milkmaid's, 
though  she  took  in  all  her  frocks  till  they  once  more 
fitted  her,  and  by  an  alteration  in  her  way  of  doing  her 
hair  disguised  the  fact  that  ever  since  Dick's  birth  it 
had  been  falling  out,  she  deceived  nobody,  except  those, 
as  she  bitterly  told  herself,  who  were  too  little  interested 


266    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

to  care.  She  had  tried  to  go  back  to  the  life  that  had 
been  pleasant  enough  before  her  child's  birth  had 
revealed  to  her  a  sweeter  and  a  fuller  life,  but  now  the 
old  amusements  left  her  cold,  her  gaiety  was  forced, 
and  through  it  all  she  felt  the  dead  baby's  hands  clutch- 
ing at  her,  his  mouth  at  her  breast,  his  fingers  twisted 
in  her  hair. 

She  allowed  herself  to  sink  into  a  sort  of  lethargic 
imitation  of  indifference.  She  grew  more  and  more 
careless  of  the  house.  What  matter?  Richard  was 
never  there.  Sometimes  now  he  did  not  even  come 
home  for  his  meals. 

Then,  one  morning,  on  opening  a  drawer  that  was 
heaped  with  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends,  she  came  upon 
two  or  three  of  Dick's  toys,  among  them  a  large  stuffed 
cat  made  of  cloth,  and  with  a  comical  expression  of 
astonishment  upon  its  broad  countenance.  To  Rose  it 
was  tragic.  A  vision  of  Dick  grasping  it  upside  down 
swam  before  her,  and  in  a  revulsion  of  feeling  she 
kissed  it  passionately,  and  hugged  it  to  her  breast.  The 
cat,  who  had  been  Dick's  unfailing  bedfellow,  seemed  to 
touch  a  secret  spring  of  activity  somewhere  within  her, 
and  in  three  days  all  was  transformed. 

She  engaged  a  charwoman,  and  with  her  help  cleaned 
out  the  house  from  top  to  bottom.  She  went  through 
all  the  drawers  and  cupboards,  putting  everything 
neatly  away,  burning  all  the  rubbish.  Dick's  things 
were  placed  in  a  cupboard  by  themselves,  a  kind  of 
little,  sacred  museum,  to  which  she  would  go  up  in  the 
early  summer  afternoons,  and  which  she  kept  sweet 
with  sandal-wood.  She  busied  herself  darning 
Richard's  socks;  the  table-cloths  were  spotless;  there 
were  flowers  in  the  vases,  clean  curtains  on  the  windows. 


THE  FLIGHT  267 

Mrs.  Seawright,  coming  now  more  frequently  to  the 
house,  was  overjoyed  at  the  change,  and  she  and  Rose 
became  fast  friends. 

Rose  began  to  practise  again,  working  particularly  at 
those  pieces  which  she  thought  Richard  might  care  for. 
Unfortunately,  most  of  them  were  difficult,  and  it 
occurred  to  her  that  she  might  get  valuable  hints  from 
Grace,  if  she  could  only  bring  herself  to  ask  for  them. 
Finally  she  made  up  her  mind  to  do  so,  and  one  after- 
noon, primed  with  this  purpose,  she  went  to  call  upon 
Mrs.  Campbell. 

Grace  welcomed  her  as  if  she  were  a  frequent  visitor, 
and  for  ten  minutes  they  sat  talking,  while  Rose  cast 
about  in  her  mind  as  to  how  she  might  soonest  arrive 
at  the  real  object  of  her  visit,  without  stating  it  directly. 

Her  glance  wandered  over  the  room  and  at  last  rested 
on  a  framed  photograph  of  Richard,  standing  on  a  table 
near  the  window,  and  invisible  from  where  she  sat  unless 
she  leaned  slightly  to  one  side.  Instantly  the  pacific 
intentions  with  which  she  had  come  were  forgotten.  She 
stopped  talking,  almost  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and 
Grace,  following  the  direction  of  her  gaze,  saw  what  she 
had  seen. 

"  Oh,  you're  looking  at  that  photo  of  Ricky !  It 
really  shouldn't  be  there.  Every  time  he  sees  it  he  asks 
me  to  put  it  away  or  burn  it.  He  doesn't  like  it.  It  is 
a  proof.     I  don't  think  he  ever  got  any  printed." 

"  I  don't  know." 

She  always  resented  the  abbreviation,  "  Ricky,"  which 
she  had  never  used  herself,  and  which  was  connected 
with  a  past  she  had  no  share  in.  Besides,  not  even  his 
mother  called  him  Ricky  :  it  was  only  Grace. 

Meanwhile  Grace  had  taken  the  frame  from  the  table 


268    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

and  had  handed  it  to  Rose.  "  Of  course  it's  not  very 
good — still,  it's  like  him." 

Rose  appeared  to  study  it,  bending  down  so  that  her 
face  was  hidden.  "Yes,  it's  like  him,"  she  said  after 
a  slight  pause.  "  I  don't  care  for  it  at  all :  it  has  an 
unpleasant  expression.  Were  you  with  him  when  it 
was  taken  ?" 

She  handed  the  photograph  back  to  Grace,  who 
laughed  as  she  took  it  "  No,  I  wasn't  with  him.  I 
think  that's  a  most  unkind  suggestion." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  No  doubt  you  have  quite  a  collection  of  his  photo- 
graphs," Rose  remarked  next. 

Grace  shook  her  head.  "  This  is  the  only  one."  She 
paused  for  a  moment  and  then  said  softly :  "  I  had 
another,  but  he  took  it  from  me  to  give  to  you.  Do  you 
remember  ?"  She  smiled.  "  He  would  have  taken  this, 
too,  if  he  had  thought  you  would  have  cared  for  it." 

Rose  made  no  response. 

"  But  he  himself  disliked  it  so  : — and  I  daresay  there 
isn't  much  point  in  having  a  rather  poor  photograph 
when  one  has  the  original." 

Rose  flushed.  "  If  it  comes  to  that,  I  expect  you  see 
more  of  the  original  than  I  do,"  she  said,  with  a  forced 
smile. 

The  words  brought  an  answering  flush  to  Grace's 
cheeks.  She  had  rung  the  bell,  and,  as  the  maid  now 
brought  in  the  tea-things,  "  Won't  you  have  some  tea  ?" 
she  asked  nervously,  pouring  out  a  cup  without  waiting 
for  a  reply. 

Rose  accepted  it. 

"  We  might  have  had  it  in  the  garden,"  Grace  went 
on,  with  sudden  volubility,  "  but  I  didn't  think  of  it.     I 


THE  FLIGHT  269 

daresay,  however,  we  are  really  more  comfortable  here. 
One  is  always  more  comfortable  in  the  house,  don't  you 
think  ?  And  we  can  go  out  into  the  garden  afterwards, 
if  you  would  care  to.  Not  that  there  is  much  to  see. 
Everything  is  rather  backward  this  year." 

"  You  must  be  very  happy,  with  such  a  beautiful 
house  and  garden,"  Rose  replied. 

"  Yes,  the  garden  is  nice  in  summer.  In  winter  it 
doesn't  make  much  difference." 

"  Oh,  but  you  have  your  music.  And  then  there  are 
your  step-children — you  are  very  fond  of  them,  aren't 
you  ? — and  your  husband." 

Grace  stared,  trying  to  believe  that  these  extra- 
ordinary remarks  were  produced  in  all  innocence,  trying 
at  the  same  time,  in  her  anxiety  to  avert  a  catastrophe, 
to  keep  ever  a  move  in  advance,  though  Rose's  lack 
of  finesse  made  this  extremely  difficult.  "  Of  course," 
she  answered. 

"  I  see  so  little  of  Richard,"  Rose  went  on. 

"  I  suppose  he  is  very  busy,"  Grace  murmured. 
"  Henry  has  been  very  busy,  too,  though  to-day  he  said 
he  would  be  home  about  five.  You  must  wait  till  he 
comes  or  he  will  be  quite  annoyed.  The  children  will 
be  coming  in,  too,  I  daresay.  Jim  is  getting  a  big  boy 
now,  and  we  are  thinking  of  sending  him  to  a  public 
school  next  year." 

It  came  to  Rose,  as  a  sort  of  inspiration,  that  if  all  else 
failed  she  might  appeal  to  Mr.  Campbell  himself. 
"  Richard  comes  here  a  great  deal,  doesn't  he  ?"  she 
persisted  wonderfully.  "  Naturally  it  is  pleasanter  here 
than  in  our  poor  little  house." 

It  was  all  rather  desolating  and  impossible,  and 
Grace  knew  that  she  could  not  go  on  ignoring  it  for 


2/0    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

ever.  She  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  seconds,  looking  at 
her  companion.  Then  she  said  very  quietly,  "  I  don't 
know — but  I  imagine  you  have  something — that  is 
troubling  you.  ...  If  it  is  what  I  think  it  is,  you  are 
labouring  under  a  quite  wrong  impression.  Won't  you 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you  this?  Won't  you  take  my 
word  ?" 

Rose  did  not  flinch.  "  Is  it  quite  wrong  to  have  the 
impression  that  he  spends  nearly  all  his  spare  time 
here?" 

"  Quite,  quite  wrong." 

"  Then  I  have  made  a  mistake  indeed,"  said  Rose, 
bitterly. 

Grace's  colourless  face  had  not  altered,  but  her  lips 
whitened,  and  she  bit  now  on  the  under  one.  "  You 
mean ?" 

"  I  mean  that  he  has  been  taken  from  me,"  said  Rose, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  Hadn't  you  enough  without  him  ? 
What  do  you  want  to  do  with  him  anyway  ?  You  have 
your  own  husband.  I  don't  understand.  I  don't 
understand  how  Mr.  Campbell  allows  it.  And  what 
must  his  children  think  ?     They  are  growing  up." 

"  You  may  be  quite  sure  that,  whatever  they  think,  it 
is  nothing  odious,"  Grace  answered  softly.  "And  I 
don't  know  why  you  should  persist  in  your  idea  that  he 
comes  very  often  to  the  house.  I  have  told  you  that  he 
doesn't.     It  is  more  than  a  week  since  he  was  here  last." 

"  Where  does  he  go  to  then  ?"  asked  Rose,  helplessly ; 
and  Grace  shook  her  head  with  an  air  of  weariness. 

"Tm  afraid  I  can't  tell  you.  I  didn't  even  know 
he  went  anywhere.  If  he  comes  to  see  me  once  in  a 
while,  surely  you  can  understand  that,  considering  what 
old  friends  we  are." 


THE  FLIGHT  2;i 

There  was  something  in  these  words — echoing  as  they 
did  what  Mrs.  Seawright,  using  almost  the  same  phrase, 
had  told  her  long  ago — something  still  more  in  the 
quietness  of  Grace's  manner,  that  kindled  a  sudden 
recklessness  in  Rose.  Rising  to  her  feet,  she  flung  from 
her  the  last  tattered  remnants  of  pride.  "  Will  you  give 
me  your  solemn  word  here  and  now  that  it  is  only  as 
a  brother  you  care  for  him  ?"  she  asked,  advancing 
a  step  towards  Grace,  who  had  remained  seated  for  a 
moment  or  two  longer,  but  who  now  also  got  up,  as  if  to 
meet  her  accuser. 

Her  reply  rang  clear  as  a  bell.  "  Yes,"  she  answered 
calmly,  looking  straight  into  the  other  woman's  eyes. 

But  Rose's  attitude  had  grown  more  menacing. 
"  You  may  swear  it  till  you're  black  in  the  face,"  she 
whispered  huskily,  "  but  it's  a  lie.  I've  seen  you  with 
him,  I've  seen  you  watching  him,  and  I  know.  If  he'd 
asked  you  instead  of  me  you'd  have  married  him,  and, 
if  he  was  to  ask  you  now,  you'd  leave  everything  else 
behind  you  and  follow  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth." 


II 

Grace,  standing  there  motionless,  yet  stricken  by  those 
last  words  as  by  a  blow  in  the  face,  watched  her  go 
out,  and  she  was  still  standing  in  the  same  position 
when  Mr.  Campbell  entered.  She  would  hardly  have 
been  surprised  had  Rose  come  back  with  him,  to  repeat 
in  his  presence  her  accusation,  but  he  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  and  crossed  over,  in  all  unconsciousness,  to 
where  she  awaited  him,  rigid  and  speechless. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  certain  perplexity.  "  Well, 
my  dear,  aren't  you  going  to  give  me  any  tea  ?" 

The  sound  of  his  smooth  quiet  voice  awakened  her 
to  a  sense  of  the  unusualness  of  her  attitude,  and  she 
rang  the  bell.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Campbell,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  strolled  to  the  window,  where  he  remained 
looking  out  till  the  maid  had  left  the  room.  Seen  thus, 
he  presented  himself  as  a  slightly  round-shouldered, 
middle-aged  man,  inclined  to  baldness,  not  particularly 
distinguished,  save  that  he  looked  kind  and  had  singu- 
larly innocent  eyes,  which  appeared  to  be  thirty  years 
younger  at  least  than  the  rest  of  his  countenance.  He 
looked,  in  fact,  exactly  what  he  was.  Even  the  details 
fitted  in — the  taste  for  the  lighter  branches  of  philo- 
sophy, for  Peacock's  novels,  the  hobby  for  collecting 
works  dealing  with  folk-lore.  Presently  he  came  over 
to  the  table  where  Grace  was  pouring  out  his  tea.  He 
had  been  whistling  almost  inaudibly,  but  he  now 
stopped,  and,  as  he  rolled  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter, 

272 


THE  FLIGHT  273 

remarked  that  he  had  met  Mrs.  Richard  on  the  door- 
step. "She  appeared  to  be  greatly  disturbed.  She 
could  scarcely  say  *  How  do  you  do  ?'  to  me." 

"  Naturally  she  was  disturbed,  seeing  that  she  came 
here  with  the  express  purpose  of  making  a  scene." 

"  What  about  ?  She  very  nearly  pushed  me  down  the 
steps  in  her  anxiety  to  get  away." 

Grace  gave  a  movement  of  impatience.  "  I  don't 
know.  Something  about  Richard.  She's  insanely 
jealous — not  of  me,  in  particular,  but  of  everybody." 

Mr.  Campbell  helped  himself  to  another  slice  of  bread 
and  butter.     "  Doesn't  she  like  him  to  come  here  ?" 

"  Evidently  not.  .  .  .  She  doesn't  like  him  to  go 
anywhere.  Even  his  own  mother  has  practically  had 
to  give  up  visiting  them.  She  said  he  came  here  every 
evening.  I  tried  to  undeceive  her,  but  heaven  knows 
whether  she  believes  me  or  not." 

Mr.  Campbell  glanced  thoughtfully  at  his  tea-cup. 
"  She  certainly  didn't  look  as  if  she  believed  you.  It's 
rather  unpleasant,  isn't  it?" 

Grace  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Her  air  of  indiffer- 
ence was  slightly  overdone.  "  What  is  one  to  do  ?  She 
is  stupid." 

"  Mightn't  it  be  better  if  he  did  come  a  little  less 
often  ?"  Mr.  Campbell  suggested  mildly.  "  I  mean,  if 
she  takes  it  in  the  way  you  describe.  After  all,  if  she 
allowed  herself  to  make  a  scene  here,  think  of  what  she 
will  do  at  home  !" 

"  I  don't  want  to  think  of  it.  She's  vulgar  and  silly 
and  altogether  odious.  ...  I  wish  we  could  go  away 
somewhere,"  she  wound  up  suddenly,  to  his  profound 
astonishment. 

"On  account  of  this ?" 

18 


2/4    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  heir  again  or  to  be  reminded  of 
her." 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  worry  about  it,"  Mr.  Campbell 
recommended.  "  Of  course,  such  scenes  are  unpleasant, 
but  the  best  plan  is  to  pretend  they  haven't  happened." 

"  Unfortunately,  that  won't  prevent  them  from 
happening  again." 

"  Then  we'll  go  away.  The  children  won't  object. 
.  .  .  Will  you,  Jim  ?"  he  added,  as  a  fair-haired,  sturdy 
boy  of  twelve  or  thirteen  burst  into  the  room. 

"  Object  to  what  ?" 

"  To  going  away." 

"  Rather  not.     Where  to  ?" 

"  Oh,  you'll  have  to  settle  that  between  you.  You  can 
talk  it  over." 

"  I  votes  Ballycastle.  I  say,  do  come  and  see  my  new 
rabbits.  There  are  four  of  them.  They  must  have  been 
born  this  morning  while  I  was  at  school." 

He  took  Grace's  hand  to  draw  her  from  the  room.  It 
was  obvious  that  they  were  great  friends. 

"  We  must  watch  that  the  cat  doesn't  get  them,"  she 
exclaimed  gaily.  "  I  saw  her  prowling  about  there  just 
before  lunch."  And  as  they  went  out  together  the  boy's 
voice  could  be  heard  eagerly  explaining  a  plan  for  the 
extension  of  the  run,  if  he  only  had  some  more  wire 
netting.  Did  she  know  where  he  could  get  any  ?  etc., 
etc. 


Ill 

Her  movements  were  swift,  once  she  had  come  to  a 
decision,  and  two  days  later,  that  is  to  say,  on  the 
Saturday  following  Rose's  visit,  all  arrangements  had 
been  made.  They  intended,  she  and  the  two  children, 
to  leave  for  Ballycastle  on  Monday  morning,  though  the 
town  house  would  still  be  kept  open  for  Mr.  Campbell, 
who  could  not  join  them  before  the  end  of  the  month. 
She  had  not  spoken  the  truth  to  Rose  or  to  her  husband 
in  the  account  she  had  given  of  her  interviews  with 
Richard,  but  it  had  really  seemed  to  her  not  far  from  it. 
For  they  did  see  each  other  less  often  than  before,  and 
when  they  met  it  was  not  the  same  as  it  had  been.  The 
shadow  of  Rose  was  now  between  them,  a  blight  seemed 
to  have  been  cast  upon  their  friendship,  and  she  knew 
it  was  because  on  his  side  there  had  never  been  anything 
more  than  that. 

She  waited  for  him  now,  on  this  Saturday  afternoon, 
with  an  impatience  that  increased  as  his  usual  hour  for 
calling  came  and  passed.  Yet  she  was  certain  he  would 
come,  for  she  had  dropped  him  a  note  to  say  that  she 
expected  him.  Four  o'clock  struck,  and  then  five.  She 
could  not  imagine  what  was  keeping  him.  Something 
must  have  happened,  and  she  wondered  if  Rose  had 
told  him,  or  had  told  Mrs.  Seawright,  of  their  quarrel ; 
or  if  he  had  not  got  her  letter,  which  she  had  addressed 
to  him,  as  usual,  at  the  office.     Her  anxiety   at   last 

275 


2;6         AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

became  so  great  that  she  determined  to  go  to  meet  him. 
Anything  was  better  than  sitting  still.  Besides,  Henry 
and  the  children  would  be  coming  in  soon,  and  she 
must  see  Richard  alone.  Leaving  word  that  she  would 
be  back  in  a  few  minutes,  she  set  forth.  Just  as  she 
reached  the  end  of  the  avenue  she  saw  Rose  herself,  and 
one  of  her  sisters,  pass  on  the  top  of  a  tram.  They  had 
not  seen  her — Grace  was  sure  of  that — for  they  had  both 
been  staring  in  the  opposite  direction.  A  sudden  and 
irresistible  temptation  caused  her  to  hasten  her  foot- 
steps. 

The  slight,  dark  figure  moved  rapidly,  presently 
turning  to  the  right  through  the  gates  of  the  Botanic 
Gardens.  She  followed  the  main  walk  there,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  reached  the  network  of  streets  lying  beyond 
the  Gardens,  always  hastening,  till  at  last  she  paused 
before  a  house. 

Richard  was  in;  she  heard  his  footsteps  in  the  hall; 
and  before  she  had  time  to  ring  the  door  was  pulled 
wide  to  admit  her.  He  stood,  smiling  a  little,  waiting 
for  her  to  enter,  but  she  still  remained  on  the  topmost 
step. 

"  I  won't  come  in.  I  just  happened  to  be  passing,  on 
my  way  home."     She  thought  he  looked  surprised. 

"  But  you  were  walking  in  the  opposite  direction.  I 
saw  you  coming." 

"  Ricky,  I'm  too  tired  to  argue.  Didn't  you  get  my 
letter  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  kept  late  at  the  office.  You  may  as 
well  come  in  now  you  are  here.  How  did  you  know 
Rose  was  out  ?" 

She  was  annoyed  at  the  tactlessness  of  his  question. 
"  I  didn't  know,  of  course." 


THE  FLIGHT  277 

"  Well,  come  in  for  a  few  minutes  at  any  rate." 

She  hesitated,  and  to  gain  time  said,  "  You  must  tell 
Rose  that  Fm  sorry  she  was  out."  Even  as  it  passed 
her  lips  she  felt  that  the  speech  was  odious  in  its  useless 
hypocrisy,  but  such  things  now  appeared  to  trip  off  her 
tongue  with  a  terrible  glibness. 

She  saw  he  did  not  like  it.  "  She  always  spends 
Saturday  afternoon  and  evening  at  her  mother's,"  he 
replied,  a  trifle  grimly. 

Suddenly  she  yielded  to  the  impulse  that  had  brought 
her,  and  crossed  the  threshold. 

He  followed  her  into  the  parlour.  "  What  was  it  you 
wanted  to  see  me  about  so  particularly  ?" 

She  had  known  from  the  first  moment  that  Rose  had 
told  him  nothing,  and  she  replied,  "  It  is  only  that  we 
are  going  away  on  Monday  and  probably  will  be  away 
all  summer."  Abruptly  she  sat  down  at  the  piano, 
Rose's  piano,  on  which  had  been  practised  every  day  the 
music  that  was  to  please  Richard. 

She  felt  it  was  quite  wrong  for  her  to  be  there, 
horribly  wrong  from  every  point  of  view.  What  was 
perhaps  even  more  wrong,  and  what  her  companion 
could  not  even  have  understood,  was  the  subtle  desire 
she  now  experienced  to  play  on  this  piano,  and  to  play 
this  very  piece  lying  open  upon  the  music-rest,  and  which 
she  knew  Rose  must  have  been  working  at  quite 
recently.     She  played  it. 

"  And  now  that's  enough.     Let  us  go." 

"  I  never  thought  that  old  piano  could  sound  so  well," 
he  murmured  innocently. 

"  It's  not  a  bad  piano.  Of  course  I  don't  know  it,  and 
one  requires  to  get  to  know  a  piano  before  one  can  play 
on  it;  still " 


2;8         AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"Grace!" 

"Well?" 

He  did  not  say  what  he  had  been  going  to  say,  for, 
as  he  paused,  they  both  heard  a  key  turn  in  the  lock  of 
the  hall-door.  Grace's  hands  still  rested  on  the  notes, 
and  into  her  green  eyes  there  came  an  extraordinary 
expression,  clear,  implacable,  cold  as  steel,  an  expres- 
sion before  which  he  shrank  involuntarily.  It  passed  as 
rapidly  as  it  had  come.  "  My  God  ! "  she  whispered 
below  her  breath. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  asked,  in  bewilderment. 

Rose  had  already  opened  the  door,  but  she  stood  on 
the  threshold  as  if  about  to  go  out  again,  not  looking  at 
Grace,  who  had  risen  from  the  music-stool  and  now 
advanced  to  meet  her. 

"  I  came  in  to  say  good-bye,"  Grace  murmured,  in  her 
low  beautiful  voice,  dropping  her  outstretched  hand,  of 
which  Rose  had  taken  no  notice.  "  We  are  going  away 
on  Monday." 

"  Yes,  I  guessed  you  would  come  here  when  you 
saw  me  on  the  tram.  It  was  a  pity  that  Ivy  saw 
you^ 

Grace's  eyes  half  closed.  "  I  am  going  with  the 
children  to  the  shore."  Her  smile  was  wonderful :  it 
seemed  to  rest  upon  them  both,  sadly,  strangely. 

Rose,  however,  took  no  notice  of  it,  nor  of  what  she 
said.  "Well,  I'm  afraid  I'm  disturbing  you!"  She 
went  out  of  the  room  quickly,  leaving  them  to  stand 
gazing  at  the  closed  door. 

He  turned,  in  confusion,  to  Grace.  She  still  smiled 
dimly,  but  from  her  white  face  the  mask  had  dropped, 
and  it  was  a  countenance  distorted  with  an  almost 
physical  pain  that  was  revealed  to  him.     "  It's  no  use," 


THE  FLIGHT  279 

she  half  whispered,  with  an  ineffable  weariness.  "  For- 
give me,  Ricky.     Good-bye." 

"  But  you  can't  go  like  this,"  he  burst  out. 

"  I  must,  Ricky  dear.  Don't  come  to-night.  I  will 
write  to  you  when  I  have  had  time  to  think.  It  won't 
do — it  won't  do." 

He  looked  at  her  helplessly.  "  She  had  no  right. 
She " 

"  She  knows,  Ricky  dear." 

"  She  knows  what  ?" 

"  Everything.     She   will   tell   you.     She   has   always 

known.     Nobody  else  knew not  even  you;  but  she 

has  always  known." 

"Grace!" 

She  had  already  reached  the  door,  through  which  she 
passed  without  looking  back,  and  a  moment  later  he 
knew  that  she  had  gained  the  street.  He  stood  Still  for 
a  while,  thinking. 

When  he  went  upstairs.  Rose  had  taken  off  her  hat, 
and  before  the  looking-glass  was  fixing  her  hair.  Out 
of  the  mirror  her  face  stared  at  him,  pale,  save  for  the 
vivid  red  in  her  thin  cheeks,  but  determined. 

**  Is  it  to  insult  me  that  you  bring  that  woman  to  the 
house  ?"  she  asked.  Then  suddenly  she  swung  round 
upon  him,  her  eyes  dark  and  wide,  while  her  words 
poured  out  in  a  torrent.  "  A  false,  white-faced,  green- 
eyed  creature !  Why  didn't  you  marry  her  ?  Oh,  I 
know  all  about  you.  Your  own  brother  told  me  first. 
But  she  was  clever.  Now  she  has  the  money  and  you 
as  well.  I  pity  her  poor  husband  that  she's  made  a 
fool  of.  Why  don't  you  go  and  live  with  her  altogether. 
If  you  weren't  a  coward,  you  would."  She  broke  into  a 
shrill  laugh. 


28o    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"Stop!"  he  said. 

"  I  won't  stop.  I've  put  up  with  it  long  enough.  Tve 
tried  not  to  see  anything,  because  I  was  frightened  of 
what  I  might  see.  But  now  that  she's  not  content  with 
your  going  to  her  own  house,  but  has  taken  to  following 
you  here,  it  is  too  much.     I  don't  know  what  may  have 

been  between  you  in  the  past "     She  paused,  but  it 

was  only  because  a  fit  of  coughing  prevented  her  from 
going  on. 

"  There  was  never  anything  between  us,"  he  said, 
"  except  what  you  chose  to  imagine.  From  the  first 
moment  you  saw  her  you  decided  to  dislike  her — I  don't 
know  why.  It  would  have  seemed  too  stupid  to  be  true, 
if  everything  you  did,  every  word  you  said,  hadn't 
proved  it." 

"  And  I  was  right :  you  know  I  was  right.  You  can't 
even  now  deny  it,  though  she  may  deny  it." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  sat  there  on  the  side  of  the 
bed,  gazing  at  the  flowered  wall-paper,  as  if  in  its 
pattern  he  read  some  message  of  absorbing  interest 
She  watched  him.  She  was  not  really  sure  of  the  truth 
of  her  accusation.  She  wanted  him  to  deny  it.  She 
wanted  him  to  deny  it  even  if  it  were  true.  And,  as  if 
in  answer  to  her  unspoken  desire,  he  repeated  automati- 
cally, "  There  has  never  been  anything  between  us." 
His  tongue  flickered  over  his  dry  lips,  and  he  relapsed 
once  more  into  that  strange  abstraction. 

Rose's  gaze  passed  beyond  him  and  encountered 
Dick's  green  cot.  With  a  little  cry  she  flung  herself 
down  beside  Richard  and  clasped  him  in  her  arms. 
She  kissed  him  and  clung  to  him,  her  cold,  tear-stained 
face  pressed  to  his.     "  I  will  never  say  anything  again," 


THE  FLIGHT  281 

she  moaned.     "  I  wish  I  was  dead,  Hke  Dick.     I  don't 
want  to  live  unless  you  can  care  for  me." 

He  held  her  to  him,  but  she  felt  the  lifelessness  of  his 
embrace,  and  a  last  hopelessness  descended  upon  her  as 
they  sat  there,  clinging  together,  shivering  and  afraid 
like  children  in  the  dark. 


IV 

Tired  out,  Rose  slept  soundly  through  the  first  hours  of 
the  night,  and  when  she  awoke  in  the  coolness  of  early 
morning  everything  seemed  to  have  become  quite  clear. 
Outside,  the  sparrows  were  chirping,  and  where  the 
blind  bulged,  a  narrow  band  of  sunlight  streamed  into 
the  room.  She  got  up,  and,  treading  noiselessly  with 
bare  feet,  went  to  Richard's  door,  which  she  opened 
softly.  He  was  asleep,  his  brown  face  half  buried  in 
the  soft  pillow.  She  gazed  at  him  and  then,  fearing 
that  he  might  awaken,  crept  back  to  her  own  bed.  But 
her  mind  was  made  up,  and  with  wide  eyes  she  lay 
thinking,  making  her  plans. 

She  knew  now  that  even  if  he  gave  up  Grace  it  would 
make  little  difference.  She  doubted  if  he  had  ever  really 
loved  her.  She  had  cheated  herself  into  a  sort  of  half- 
belief  in  his  love,  but  from  the  beginning  she  had  had 
hours  when  she  had  known  she  was  cheating  herself. 
The  very  way  their  marriage  had  come  about  was 
wrong.  She  did  not  believe  now  that  he  had  ever 
wanted  to  marry  her. 

Most  of  that  day  she  spent  at  her  mother's,  and  on 
Monday  morning,  after  Richard  had  set  off  for  the 
office,  she  made  her  final  preparations.  He  came  home 
at  one  o'clock  for  dinner.  Then,  when  he  had  gone  out 
again,  she  felt  herself  at  last  free  to  act.  She  went  into 
his  room  and  sat  down  at  his  writing-table. 

282 


THE  FLIGHT  283 

"  Dearest  Richard,"  she  wrote.  "  When  you  get  this 
I  shall  have  gone  away.  I  have  thought  it  all  over  and 
I  see  now  that  we  can  no  longer  live  happily  together. 
I  have  made  promises  in  the  past,  not  to  you  but  to 
myself,  and  I  have  always  broken  them,  and  I  should 
break  them  in  the  future.  There  is  no  use  your  trying  to 
follow  me,  for  I  will  never  come  back.  I  will  write  to 
you,  and  you  needn't  be  anxious  about  me,  for  I  have 
plenty  of  money  to  go  on  with  and  can  easily  get  work 
the  way  I  did  before.  I  have  telegraphed  to  Martin  to 
meet  me  at  the  station  so  that  I  shall  not  even  be  quite 
alone  when  I  arrive.  I  will  not  write  any  more  except 
to  say  that  I  will  always  be 

"  Your  loving 

"  ROSE." 

This  letter  finished,  she  wrote  another  note,  which  she 
left  lying  on  the  table  where  he  would  be  sure  to  see  it 
when  he  came  in.  It  was  to  say  that  she  had  gone  to 
Palermo  Street,  and  would  not  be  home  till  late  in  the 
evening.  He  was  not  to  sit  up  for  her  as  Ev  would  see 
her  home. 

She  knew  he  always  went  to  bed  about  half-past 
ten,  and  this  would  leave  her  free  till  the  next  morning, 
when  he  would  get  the  letter  telling  him  the  truth.  She 
laid  the  table  for  tea,  and  then,  after  a  last  look  round, 
went  out  to  get  a  cab.  Fortunately,  Richard  never 
spoke  to  his  next-door  neighbours,  so  that  there  was 
nothing  to  prevent  her  departing  quite  openly,  with  her 
luggage. 

But  the  hours  of  inaction,  spent  at  an  hotel  near  the 
docks,  were  almost  unbearable.  At  length  she  felt  she 
might  safely  go  on  board  the  steamer,  and  once  there 


284    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

she  descended  immediately  to  her  cabin.  All  night 
long  she  lay  listening  to  the  throbbing  of  the  screw, 
and  the  long  low  wash  of  the  water  breaking  past  the 
port-hole.  The  tea  which  the  stewardess  brought  her 
in  the  morning  revived  her,  but  the  effect  was  only  tem- 
porary, and  when  she  got  into  the  train  at  Lime  Street 
she  felt  jaded  and  weary.  She  had  been  fortunate 
enough  to  secure  a  compartment  to  herself,  and  hoped 
to  get  a  short  sleep  before  they  reached  London;  but 
just  as  the  train  was  leaving  the  station  an  elderly  man, 
stout  and  flushed,  hurried  up,  puffing  and  blowing,  and 
to  her  disappointment  a  porter  pulled  open  the  door  of 
her  carriage  and  pushed  him  in  there.  He  tumbled  into 
the  corner  seat  opposite  Rose,  and  sat  noisily  recovering 
his  breath,  while  he  fanned  himself  with  a  folded  news- 
paper which  he  held  tightly  grasped  in  a  fat  hand. 

Rose  closed  her  eyes  and  tried  to  doze,  hoping  that 
her  companion  would  presently  go  out  to  the  breakfast- 
car,  but  in  this  too  she  was  disappointed.  A  complete 
change  had  taken  place  within  her  mind,  and  the  whole 
aspect  of  her  undertaking  had  altered  with  it.  Her 
confidence  had  vanished.  It  would  have  been  better, 
she  now  thought,  to  have  stopped  at  Liverpool,  where 
she  might  have  found  work  at  her  old  place :  it  would 
have  been  best  of  all  to  have  stopped  at  home.  The  one 
thing  she  clung  to  was  the  certainty  that  Martin  would 
be  there  to  meet  her  at  her  journey's  end ;  Martin  whom 
she  had  liked  so  much,  and  who  had  given  her  the 
impression  of  being  willing  to  do  anything  for  her. 

She  was  aroused  from  her  reverie  by  a  slight  noise; 
her  fellow-traveller  had  dropped  his  newspaper.  He 
made  no  attempt  to  pick  it  up,  though  he  had  not  read, 
had  not  even  unfolded  it.     She  glanced  timidly  at  him 


THE  FLIGHT     .  285 

and  saw  that  he  was  staring  straight  into  her  face,  with 
blank,  foohsh  eyes.  His  head  leaned  back  against  the 
cushion,  one  of  his  hands  drooped  listlessly,  the  other 
rested  on  his  knee.  The  purplish  glow  had  faded  from 
his  cheeks,  leaving  them  a  pale,  yellowish  white,  like 
discoloured  wax.  He  was  very  common-looking,  clean- 
shaved  except  for  short  side  whiskers  of  a  reddish  grey ; 
and  he  sat  with  his  mouth  slightly  open,  while  his  pale 
and  rather  prominent  eyes  stared  so  fixedly  at  her  that 
she  got  up  and  moved  to  the  other  end  of  the  carriage, 
under  the  pretence  of  being  interested  in  the  view.  Yet 
from  time  to  time  she  could  not  help  glancing  at  him, 
and  it  was  always  to  observe  that  same  cold  expression- 
less stare  in  his  eyes.  He  no  longer  looked  at  her,  but 
at  the  photographs  of  coast  scenery  on  the  wall 
immediately  before  him.  A  curious  nervousness  began 
to  creep  into  her  mind.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  tried 
to  sleep,  but  found  herself  constantly  opening  them  to 
cast  a  furtive  glance  at  the  man  in  the  corner,  a,t  the 
hands  and  at  the  fat  pale  yellow  face,  which  swayed  and 
jerked  grotesquely  with  the  rocking  of  the  train.  She 
had  never  seen  anybody  who  gave  her  such  an  impres- 
sion of  absolute  limpness  as  this  man,  who  appeared 
to  be  at  the  mercy  of  each  jolt  of  the  carriage. 

She  shivered.  The  hands  were  curiously  unhealthy, 
pale  like  tallow,  with  a  reddish  down  growing  half  way 
up  the  broad  flat  fingers.  And  the  glazed  eyes  never 
moved.  Then  all  at  once  it  struck  her  that  the  eyelids 
had  not  blinked. 

Her  trouble  and  two  sleepless  nights  had  told  upon 
her  nerves,  and  a  strange,  sickening  dread  now 
paralyzed  her.  She  shrank  up  in  her  corner,  watching 
her  companion  intently.     All  she  had  to  do  was  to  open 


286    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

the  door  and  go  out  into  the  corridor,  but  she  could 
not  move.  She  tried  to  reason  with  herself — and  each 
time  the  train  swayed  she  saw  the  man  make  a  sudden 
spasmodic  jerk  in  his  seat,  though  always  to  fall  back 
again  into  the  same  comfortable  position. 

Presently,  to  her  intense  relief,  the  guard  appeared. 
He  snipped  Rose's  ticket  and  stretched  out  his  hand 
for  that  of  the  other  passenger,  who  still  sat  motionless 
and  impassive.  He  seemed  curiously  deaf,  too,  and 
even  when  the  guard  grasped  him  by  the  shoulder  it 
did  not  arouse  him — only  his  head  drooped  down  side- 
ways, with  a  rather  silly,  rather  ugly  kind  of  droop. 
The  guard  instantly  relinquished  his  grasp,  as  if  he 
had  touched  something  exceedingly  unpleasant,  and  a 
startled  look  was  visible  on  the  face  he  turned  to  Rose. 
"  You'd  better  get  into  the  next  compartment,  miss. 
There's  something  wrong  with  this  gentleman.  'Ad  a 
stroke  or  something." 

Rose  needed  no  second  bidding.  A  few  moments 
later  she  heard  a  voice  calling  in  the  passage,  "  Any 
gentleman  here  a  doctor?"  The  voice  died  away, 
repeating  its  question  on  down  the  train,  and  next  she 
saw  a  little  man  with  a  black  hand-bag  hurrying  past 
in  the  wake  of  the  guard. 

She  felt  herself  trembling,  almost  fainting,  when  some- 
body entered  her  carriage.  It  was  the  guard.  "I 
'ope  it  'asn't  upset  you,  miss.  Very  unpleasant  for  you. 
'E's  dead,  poor  gentleman.  'Eart  failure.  Must  *ave 
died  shortly  after  getting  into  the  train.  A  Mr.  Perkins, 
*e  is.  Lives  in  Liverpool  but  travels  a  good  deal  on 
this  line.     'E's  quite  cold  already." 

She  murmured  something,  and  at  the  next  station 
she  knew  from  the  commotion  on  the  platform  that  they 


THE  FLIGHT  287 

were  carrying  out  the  body.  She  sat  huddled  in  her 
corner,  and  when  the  train  had  started  the  guard 
appeared  once  more,  this  time  with  her  hand-bag  and 
umbrella,  which  she  had  forgotten. 

"  That  was  the  station  'e  was  getting  out*  at,  any- 
way," the  guard  commented,  "  and  'e  'as  got  out  there — 
a  friend  waiting  for  'im  on  the  platform,  too." 

Fortunately  the  other  occupants  of  Rose's  carriage 
were  all  in  the  breakfast-car,  so  that  when  they  came 
back,  though  they  chattered  about  what  had  occurred, 
nobody  asked  her  any  questions.  Her  thoughts,  never- 
theless, took  on  the  gloomiest  tinge.  She  could  not  dis- 
miss from  her  mind  that  this  tragedy  was  an  evil  omen, 
and  when  the  train  arrived  at  Euston  she  was  in  a 
state  of  extreme  nervousness.  There  were  not  many 
people  on  the  platform,  and  she  looked  out  eagerly  for 
Martin.  She  told  a  porter  to  get  her  boxes,  but  did  not 
accompany  him  to  the  luggage  van,  so  fearful  was  she 
of  missing  her  brother-in-law.  Meanwhile  the  other 
passengers  rapidly  dispersed,  and  when  the  porter 
rejoined  her,  the  last  stragglers  had  vanished.  He  had 
her  luggage  on  a  truck,  and  stood  waiting  for  further 
instructions,  but  still  there  was  no  sign  of  Martin. 

"  Keb,  miss  ?"  the  porter  suggested,  noticing  her 
bewilderment. 

"  No,  thanks.     Tm  expecting  a  friend." 

She  waited  for  another  five  minutes  while  the  porter 
lounged  near,  whistling  the  opening  bars  of  various 
tunes. 

"  I  think  I'll  leave  the  boxes  in  the  left-luggage  office," 
she  said  at  last,  recognizing  that  she  could  not  keep 
the  man  standing  there  for  ever.  She  followed  him  and 
got  a  ticket.     Then  she  tipped  him,  and  was  alone. 


288    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

She  sat  down  to  wait,  watching  the  hands  of  the 
station  clock  move  slowly  on.  She  waited  for  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  while  her  heart  sank  lower  and 
lower.  Martin  had  not  come.  She  was  alone  here  in  a 
vast  city,  and  without  the  least  idea  where  she  ought 
to  go  to.  She  sat  cold  and  afraid,  though  the  sun  was 
shining  and  there  was  the  bustle  of  life  all  round  her. 
She  thought  of  driving  to  Martin's  address,  but  if  he 
had  not  come,  that  showed  that  he  did  not  want  her, 
and  she  was  too  dejected,  too  miserable,  to  force  herself 
upon  him.  But  it  was  cruel  of  him  to  leave  her  like 
this !  In  her  sense  of  utter  abandonment  her  tears 
began  to  fall.  She  was  unconscious  of  them  and  left 
them  to  dry  upon  her  cheeks.  At  last  she  determined 
to  ask  when  the  next  train  from  Liverpool  arrived.  She 
learned  that  it  was  due  in  fifty  minutes.  She  remem- 
bered that  she  had  had  practically  nothing  to  eat  since 
the  previous  day,  but  she  was  too  frightened  of  missing 
Martin  if  he  should  come,  to  go  to  the  refreshment  room. 
She  knew  it  was  ridiculous  to  expect  him  now,  yet  she 
waited  and  waited.  She  had  a  faint,  momentary  revival 
of  hope  when  the  next  train  came  in,  but  Martin 
did  not  meet  this  either. 

She  went  to  the  refreshment  room  and  drank  a  cup  of 
tea  and  ate  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter.  Then  she  took 
a  taxi  and  drove  to  Martin's  lodgings. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  portly  person  with  quan- 
tities of  yellow  hair,  very  hard  eyes,  and  an  ingratiating 
smile.     Rose  asked  for  Mr.  Seawright. 

"  Mr.  Seawright  isn't  at  home ;  but  perhaps  you're  the 
lady  he  left  this  note  for  ?"  And  the  portly  person  held 
out  a  sealed  envelope  which  Rose  took  eagerly. 

"  Won't  you  step  inside  ?" 


THE  FLIGHT  289 

Rose  did  not  even  hear  her.  She  had  already  torn 
open  the  letter  and  was  reading  its  contents,  while  the 
landlady,  to  whom  the  seal  had  been  a  source  of  con- 
siderable annoyance  all  day,  watched  her  with  mingled 
suspicion  and  curiosity. 

It  did  not  take  her  long  to  grasp  the  purport  of 
Martin's  note,  though  in  form  it  was  somewhat  lengthy. 
He  had  been  obliged  to  go  out  of  town  on  important 
business,  but  had  given  instructions  that  a  room  should 
be  got  ready  for  her,  should  she  require  it.  He  strongly 
urged  her  to  return  home,  however,  either  to-night  or 
to-morrow,  for  he  was  certain  that  she  had  made  a  mis- 
take, though,  fortunately,  it  was  not  an  irretrievable  one. 
He  was  more  sorry  than  he  could  say  that  he  had  not 
been  able  to  meet  her.  He  would  have  telegraphed  to 
her  if  she  had  given  him  time  to  do  so.  He  had  tele- 
graphed to  Richard — he  hoped  she  would  forgive  him — 
who  would  certainly  cross  that  night  and  be  with  her 
in  the  morning.  In  the  meantime  she  was  to  make  use 
of  his  rooms  quite  as  if  they  were  her  own.  His  land- 
lady was  an  excellent  cook  and  he  hoped  would  look 
after  her  well.     But  he  advised,  he  implored 

She  read  it  through  once,  and  the  landlady,  who  was 
becoming  impatient,  again  asked  her  to  "  step  inside." 

The  very  sight  of  that  smirking  face  was  odious  to 
Rose.  "  No,  thanks,"  she  answered,  with  wonderful  firm- 
ness. "  You  might  tell  Mr.  Seawright  that  I  called, 
and  that  I've  decided  to  go  back  to  Ireland  to-night." 
She  descended  the  steps,  crumpling  Martin's  letter  in 
her  hand.  Her  taxi  was  still  waiting  for  her,  and  she 
called  out  to  the  driver,  "  Back  to  Euston,  please." 

She  was  in  the  train  again,  rushing  through  the  flat, 

19 


290    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

uninteresting  country,  crouched  in  a  corner  by  the  win- 
dow. She  no  longer  thought  very  clearly;  she  felt  too 
sick,  too  dazed,  to  think;  but  morbid  fancies  floated 
through  her  brain  in  a  kind  of  waking  dream.  She  had 
realized  at  last  that  her  plan  was  a  failure;  she  had 
neither  strength  of  mind  nor  strength  of  body  to  carry 
it  through.  She  had  bought  some  food  from  a  boy  on 
the  platform,  but  when  she  tried  to  eat  it  her  throat 
seemed  to  contract  and  she  foimd  it  difficult  to  swallow. 
Very  soon  she  gave  up  the  attempt.  She  tried  to  sleep, 
but  that  too  was  impossible,  and  fitful  visions  of  the  past 
swarmed  in  her  mind.  She  thought  of  her  baby  and  it 
now  appeared  to  her  that  his  death  had  not  been 
accidental.  She  had  not  been  worthy  to  bring  up  a 
child,  so  it  had  been  taken  from  her. 

In  Lime  Street  station  she  roused  herself  sufficiently 
to  see  that  her  boxes  were  put  on  the  cart  for  the  boat. 
Then  she  stood  still.  A  boy  loitering  there  glanced 
at  her.  Struck  perhaps  by  her  tragic  face,  he  asked  if 
he  could  do  anything  for  her.  "  The  passengers'  bus 
is  over  there,"  he  said,  pointing  it  out. 

She  thanked  him  and  moved  mechanically  towards  it, 
but,  after  she  had  taken  a  few  steps,  stopped  again.  A 
jarvey  leaned  from  his  seat.     "Belfast  boat,  miss?" 

His  words  seemed  to  awaken  a  plan  of  action  that 
sprang  instantaneously  into  being,  probably  because  it 
had  lain  dormant  for  many  hours  in  her  distraught 
mind.  She  spoke  even  with  a  certain  tranquillity.  "  I 
want  to  go  to  a  chemist's,  please." 

"  Right  you  are,  miss." 

Next  moment,  still  clasping  her  handbag  and 
umbrella,  she  was  being  driven  down  a  noisy  street.  The 
city  seemed  evil  and  hideous  to  her — the  glaring  lamps, 


THE  FLIGHT  291 

the  white  faces,  the  squaHd  figures,  the  flare  and  flame 
of  pubhc-houses.  They  stopped  before  a  chemist's  and 
she  dismounted.  When  she  emerged  from  the  shop  she 
asked  the  man  to  drive  her  to  a  good  hotel. 

He  saw  that  she  was  in  trouble,  and  considered  for  a 
moment.  "  Yes,  miss,"  he  said,  at  last.  "  You  want  a 
quiet,  respectable  'ouse,  you  do.  I  think  I  know  w'at'll 
suit  you."  Then  he  added  pensively :  "  If  you're  in  a 
strange  plice  by  yourself,  and  wanting  an  hotel,  I  don't 
know  but  the  best  plan  ain't  to  ask  the  p'lice.  Not  but 
wot  you  aren't  safe  as  a  lamb  with  me." 

He  gave  a  jerk  of  his  reins  and  they  drove  on,  turn- 
ing to  the  left,  down  a  broader,  quieter  street.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  pulled  up  and  Rose  once  more  dismounted, 
asking  him  what  his  fare  was.  He  eyed  her  doubtfully. 
"  You  'aven't  got  no  luggage  nor  anything,"  he  said. 
"  Sometimes  they  'as  rules  in  these  hotels  about  not 
letting  rooms  to  single  ladies.  I  think  I'd  better  wait. 
You  can  send  out  the  'all-porter  to  pay  me." 

"  But  I  have  luggage,"  Rose  said  faintly.  "  It  was 
taken  down  to  the  boat.     I  intended  to  cross  at  first." 

"  Well,  if  they  says  anything  saucy,  just  you  tell  'em 
that." 

She  passed  through  the  wide,  brightly-illuminated 
vestibule,  and  going  up  to  the  oflice  asked  for  a  room, 
explaining  that  her  luggage  had  gone  on  by  mistake. 
She  had  an  idea  at  first  that  the  clerk  was  going  to  refuse 
her,  so  long  did  he  seem  to  hesitate,  and  she  felt  bitterly 
that  it  needed  only  this  to  make  matters  complete.  But 
apparently  she  passed  muster,  for  he  called  out  a 
number,  and  one  of  the  servants  officiously  seized  her 
little  bag. 

The  elevator  took  her  up  to  the  third  storey,  and,  half 


292    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

way  down  a  long  passage,  the  man  opened  a  door  and 
switched  on  the  Hght.  He  put  down  her  bag  and  asked 
if  he  should  ring  for  the  chamber-maid.  She  nodded; 
then,  remembering  the  cabman,  took  out  her  purse. 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone  she  sank  down  on  the  side 
of  the  bed.  An  overpowering  faintness  had  seized  her. 
When  it  passed,  and  she  sat  up,  it  suddenly  appeared 
to  her  that  she  recognized  her  surroundings.  Had  she 
been  here  before  ?  or  was  it  but  her  first  impression  that 
had  been  forgotten  when  she  had  turned  sick  ?  For 
she  seemed  to  know  the  pale,  flowered  hangings  of  the 
bed,  the  wardrobe  with  its  red  curtained  doors,  the  pale 
blue  paper  with  its  pattern  of  silver  rose  leaves.  Was 
she  dreaming  now  or  was  she  going  mad  ?  She 
started  to  her  feet.  Then,  glancing  down  at  the  bed, 
she  saw  something  lying  there — somebody  very  pale 
and  still,  the  hands  folded,  the  feet  straight  and  stiff. 
The  floor  swayed,  swept  up  to  her,  and  if  she  had  not 
grasped  the  bed-post  she  would  have  fallen  heavily. 
When  she  opened  her  eyes  again  the  vision  had  gone. 

All  this  seemed  to  have  occupied  hours,  yet  it  was 
only  now  that  the  chamber-maid's  knock  sounded  at 
the  door.  Rose  started  violently,  and  it  was  not  till  the 
knock  was  repeated  that  she  called  out,  "  Come  in." 

The  woman  entered,  bringing  a  can  of  hot  water.  She 
pulled  down  the  bed-clothes  and  arranged  the  pillows. 
She  was  going  out  again  when  Rose  began  to  talk  to 
her  eagerly,  saying  anything  that  came  into  her  head, 
anxious  only  to  keep  her.  The  chamber-maid  replied 
to  her  questions,  but  evidently  was  not  disposed  to 
linger,  for  at  the  first  pause  in  Rose's  incoherent  remarks 
she  made  her  escape. 

Then,  standing  there,  Rose  listened  to  the  bang  of  a 


THE  FLIGHT  293 

distant  door,  that  was  followed  by  an  intense  silence,  a 
strange,  unnatural  silence.  She  went  out  into  the  pas- 
sage, hoping  to  hear  the  sound  of  voices,  but  everything 
was  still  as  the  grave.  She  made  the  comparison  in 
her  own  mind,  and  at  once  the  hackneyed,  literary  image 
became  charged  with  a  terrible  meaning.  She  shud- 
dered, and  leaned  her  burning  forehead  against  the 
cold  wall. 

The  upper  storeys  of  the  hotel  appeared  to  be  quite 
deserted,  and  as,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  passage,  she 
faced  the  door  of  her  own  room,  which  for  some  reason 
she  had  carefully  closed  behind  her,  she  was  seized  with 
a  superstitious  dread,  and  was  afraid  to  turn  the  handle. 
Something  was  on  the  other  side,  waiting  for  her,  grim 
and  quiet. 

She  thought  of  going  downstairs;  then  she  made  a 
strong  effort  to  regain  her  self-control,  and  flung  the 
door  wide.  The  bright  illumination  inside  dispelled  her 
nervousness,  and  this  time  she  locked  herself  in.  She 
pulled  aside  the  blind  and  looked  through  the  window, 
hoping  to  see  the  street  below,  but  what  she  gazed  down 
into  was  a  kind  of  garden,  gloomy  and  black,  with  a 
high  wall,  above  which  rose  the  gaunt  outline  of  a  single 
tree. 

She  began  to  remove  her  clothing,  but  every  now  and 
again  she  stopped  and  remained  for  a  few  seconds  per- 
fectly motionless.  Once  her  gaze  was  arrested  by  her 
own  image  in  the  mirror,  and  she  did  not  recognize  the 
face  that  looked  out  at  her  with  shining  eyes. 

And  suddenly  the  purpose  that  had  taken  her  to  the 
chemist's  swam  up  into  her  mind.  She  completed  her 
undressing  and,  now  in  her  nightgown,  poured  the  con- 
tents of  the  little  bottle  she  had  bought  into  a  tumbler. 


294    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

When  she  had  drunk  it  she  turned  off  the  light  and  got 
into  bed.  Closing  her  eyes,  she  tried  to  compose  herself 
to  sleep.  A  heavy  darkness  hovered  before  her,  and 
she  believed  that  she  was  going  to  sink  softly  down 
into  it,  when  it  broke  and  disappeared.  She  opened 
her  eyes.  As  they  grew  accustomed  to  the  gloom,  the 
different  objects  around  her  took  on  their  several  identi- 
ties. She  could  see  the  wardrobe  with  its  red  curtains 
that  were  now  black;  she  could  see  the  dressing-table, 
the  wash-stand.  And  then,  against  the  paler  back- 
ground of  the  window  blind,  she  saw  something  else. 

She  nearly  screamed,  perhaps  she  did  scream,  for  a 
strange,  high  sound  rang  through  the  room.  She  saw 
him  perfectly  distinctly — the  man  who  had  died  in  the 
train.  He  had  glided  into  the  room  and  he  stood  now 
just  before  the  window.  He  stared  at  her  in  all  his 
flabby  ugliness.  He  never  moved,  but  his  mouth 
expanded  slowly  in  a  dreadful  distortion  of  his  whole 
face,  as  he  waited  and  watched.  She  shut  her  eyes, 
but  when  she  opened  them  a  little  later  he  was  still 
there.  Some  part  of  her  brain  kept  repeating  that  she 
was  alone,  that  what  she  saw  was  an  hallucination,  but 
though  she  struggled  desperately  against  it,  it  remained. 
And  simultaneously  a  fear  of  death  rushed  in  upon  her — 
the  death  that  would  bring  him  nearer.  She  wanted  to 
cry  out,  to  cry  for  help.  She  would  tell  them  she  had 
taken  poison.  They  must  get  a  doctor — and  quickly, 
very  quickly.  She  cried  again  and  again,  but  she  could 
hear  no  sound  pass  her  lips  and  at  last  she  lay  still. 
"  It  is  not  there — it  is  not  there,"  she  moaned.  "  It  is 
not  there.  There  is  nothing  there  but  the  window.  .  .  . 
Why  does  not  somebody  take  it  away  ?"  Another  cry 
rose  in  her  throat,  but,  like  the  rest,  this  too  was  sound- 


THE  FLIGHT  295 

less.  She  became  confusedly  conscious  of  a  clamour  out- 
side her  door,  of  a  rending,  smashing  sound  that  shook 
the  room.  "  It  is  not  there.  There  is  nothing  there 
but  the  window,"  she  explained  eagerly  to  a  crowd  of 
persons  who  seemed,  she  knew  not  how,  to  have  come 
in,  bringing  with  them  a  sudden,  dazzling  light.  "  There 
is  nothing  there — nothing.  .  .  ." 


PART   SIXTH 

THE  VISION 


I 

She  did  not  recognize  him  when,  late  in  the  evening,  he 
at  last  found  her.  From  the  nurse  he  learned  all  there 
was  to  learn.  Rose  had  attempted  to  poison  herself, 
but  this  had  nothing  to  do  with  her  present  illness,  for 
the  chemist,  whose  suspicions  had  been  aroused,  had 
supplied   her  with   a  quite   harmless   sleeping-draught. 

She  died  that  night,  without  regaining  consciousness. 

For  Richard  the  moment  when  he  saw  her  parents 
dismounting  from  their  cab  at  the  hotel  door  was  a 
terrible  one.  It  was  clear  that  they  regarded  him  as 
directly  responsible  for  all  that  had  occurred,  and  it 
became  clearer  still  when,  after  his  return  home,  he 
chanced  one  day  to  meet  Everard  in  the  street,  and  the 
boy  passed  him  with  a  single  glance  of  hatred  and 
scorn. 

From  this  time  forward  he  became  a  stranger  to  the 
Jacksons  and  their  friends.  Lambert  alone  found  such 
an  attitude  impossible  to  keep  up,  and  one  morning, 
about  six  weeks  after  Rose's  death,  he  mentioned  that 
he  had  received  a  direct  message  from  his  daughter, 
exonerating  Richard  from  all  blame,  and  desiring  that 
a  reconciliation  should  take  place. 

A  fixed  darkness  had  descended  upon  his  life.  The 
vision  of  Rose  alone  in  London,  of  her  return  journey, 
and  of  that  last  scene  in  the  hotel,  haunted  him.  It  was 
the  hour,  indeed,  of  Rose's  triumph.  As  he  saw  her 
now  she  seemed  strangely  young.     When  he  thought 

298 


THE  VISION  299 

of  her,  it  was  either  as  when  he  had  first  met  her,  or  as 
when  he  had  watched  her  nursing  their  child.  Dead, 
she  seemed  to  claim  him,  and  her  power  increased  daily. 

From  Grace  he  had  received  no  message,  no  sign  of 
any  kind.  He  did  not  write  to  her;  still  less  did  he 
think  of  going  to  see  her.  Sometimes,  when  he  came 
home  from  work,  he  read  Martin's  letter  to  Rose.  It 
fascinated  him  curiously,  and  very  soon  he  knew  it  by 
heart. 

He  began  to  pray.  Night  by  night  he  prayed  with 
a  dogged  persistency  that  a  light  of  some  kind  might 
dawn  upon  him,  that  he  might  have  faith,  that  he  might 
find  God  :  and  night  by  night  he  rose  from  his  knees 
with  a  dull  feeling  of  failure,  with  a  sense  of  spiritual 
exhaustion,  that  fortunately  was  usually  followed  by  a 
deep  sleep. 

It  seemed  to  him  at  last  that  he  could  not  go  on  living 
unless  he  could  feel  certain  of  the  existence  of  God.  It 
was  not  that  he  wanted  God  to  save  him ;  all  that  was 
as  nothing  in  his  desire  to  see  clearly,  once  and  for  all, 
that  behind  the  miserable  accidents  of  life  there  was  a 
spiritual  reality,  a  purpose,  a  power  for  good,  which  was 
not  the  mere  invention  of  a  few  exalted  minds. 

There  was  a  verse  from  the  New  Testament  which 
repeated  itself  like  a  refrain  through  everything :  — 
"  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  you ;  seek,  and  ye  shall  find ; 
knock,  and  it  shall  be  opened  unto  you."  He  heard 
it  everywhere;  it  was  in  all  the  rhythms  of  the  streets; 
the  feet  passing  on  the  pavement  drummed  it  out,  the 
noise  of  every  vehicle.  He  would  knock ;  he  would  find. 
All  the  strength  of  his  will  was  put  into  his  determina- 
tion. There  was  something  that  might  have  appeared 
either   ludicrous   or   insane   in   that   fierce,   protracted 


300    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

beating  at  the  gate  of  the  infinite.  He  sought  no  human 
help  or  advice;  an  instinct  told  him  that  the  struggle 
must  be  his  own.  And  again  and  again  he  read  the 
story  of  Jacob  wrestling  all  night  long  with  the 
angel :  — "  I  will  not  let  thee  go,  except  thou  bless  me." 
No  one  knew  or  suspected  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind.  At  the  office  they  saw  that  he  was  more  silent 
than  usual,  but  in  his  manner  there  was  an  irritability, 
a  moroseness,  which  was  far  from  suggesting  any  pre- 
occupation with  religious  things.  It  was  supposed  that 
he  was  sorrowing  for  his  wife's  death,  and  Mr.  Wynch 
urged  him  to  take  a  holiday. 


II 

Close  upon  this  came  a  letter  from  his  mother — the 
third  or  fourth,  indeed, — begging  him  to  come  down  to 
Ballycastle,  where  she  herself  was  staying  with  Grace. 
She  had  not  wanted  to  go,  she  would  have  much  pre- 
ferred being  with  Richard,  but  he  had  insisted  that  she 
should.  Nevertheless,  the  thought  of  his  solitary  exist- 
ence in  that  deserted  house  was  constantly  on  her  mind, 
and  in  her  last  letter  she  threatened  that  if  he  did  not 
come  to  her  she  would  return  to  town.  She  had  been 
on  the  point  of  adding  that  they  expected  Martin 
towards  the  end  of  the  week.  Then  some  instinct  had 
kept  her  from  doing  so — merely  an  instinct,  for  she 
knew  nothing  of  the  part  Richard  conceived  Martin  to 
have  played  in  the  recent  tragedy,  and  in  a  tragedy 
earlier  still. 

It  was  a  brilliant  autumn  morning  when  he  set  out, 
and  it  was  still  fine,  though  not  so  fine,  when  he  arrived 
at  his  destination.  During  the  journey  his  mind  had 
veered  round  again.  The  more  he  thought  of  meeting 
Grace,  the  more  distasteful  the  idea  now  became  to  him. 
The  dead  woman  rose  between  them — the  mother  of  his 
child — the  memory  of  the  look  he  had  seen  for  a  moment 
on  Grace's  face  on  that  last  afternoon,  when  Rose  had 
found  them  together.  Had  there  been  a  train  back  he 
would  have  taken  it;  but  it  was  Sunday,  and  there  was 
no  train — none,  at  least,  until  the  afternoon. 

He  left  the  station,  and,  keeping  to  the  road  beside 

301 


302    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

the  golf-links,  avoided  the  Campbells'  house.  He  met 
nobody,  and,  after  continuing  his  way  along  the  shore 
for  perhaps  half  an  hour,  he  began  to  climb  the  cliff 
leading  to  Fair  Head.  Here  he  could  remain  all  morn- 
ing. In  the  afternoon  he  would  go  back  to  town,  and 
they  need  never  learn  of  his  visit  at  all. 

The  path  was  steep,  though  not  at  all  difficult,  having 
been  dug  out  of  the  cliff-side.  Beside  it,  down  a  fissure 
in  the  rock,  fell  a  stream,  which  overflowed  in  places, 
and  gushed  coldly  against  his  hands  as  he  grasped  at 
the  stones.  The  loose  soil  slid  away  in  showers  under 
his  feet. 

From  the  top  of  the  cliff  the  ground  still  rose,  sloping 
up  on  the  left  in  a  steep  grassy  hill,  strewn  with 
boulders;  and  this  was  the  most  tedious  part  of  the 
climb,  for  the  short  sapless  grass  was  dry  and  slippery, 
and  his  feet  slipped  back  at  every  step.  On  the  topmost 
ridge  a  solitary  white  goat  was  silhouetted  against  the 
sky. 

He  scrambled  up  the  last  few  yards,  which  were 
steeper  than  the  rest,  climbed  the  loose  wall  of  stones, 
and  stood,  where  the  goat  had  stood,  upon  the  summit. 

All  around  him  was  a  broad  table-land,  reaching 
back  from  the  cliff's  edge,  carpeted  with  heather  and 
strewn  with  grey  rocks.  A  little  way  inland,  there 
gleamed  the  smooth  waters  of  a  lake,  and  below  him  lay 
the  sea,  breaking  in  white  foam  against  the  stony  shore. 
A  fresh  wind  was  blowing.  Great  clouds  rolled  above 
his  head,  and  the  sun  disappeared  and  reappeared.  He 
kept  close  to  the  edge  of  the  cliffs,  and  presently  the 
atmosphere  seemed  to  grow  clearer,  the  colour  of  the 
sea  changed,  and  out  of  it,  far  away,  a  mysterious  island 
emerged,  blue  against  the  blue  heavens.  Jura  with  its 


THE  VISION  303 

three  cone-shaped  hills,  a  dimmer,  fainter  blue  than  the 
water,  but  slightly  darker  than  the  sky.  Sky,  land, 
and  sea  seemed  to  be  melted  together,  and  the  white 
clouds,  long  and  slender,  were  like  painted  shadows. 
In  all  this  wide  expanse  of  air  and  land  and  water  there 
was  nothing  to  suggest  human  life.  He  seemed  to  have 
come  to  the  very  home  of  the  winds,  which  sang  exultant 
notes  in  his  ears,  and  hummed  among  the  dry  heather 
at  his  feet. 

Every  moment  the  light  was  altering,  and  now 
directly  before  him  he  saw  immense  dark  clouds  rolling 
up  above  the  horizon,  while  at  the  same  instant  the 
island  was  blotted  out.  He  walked  on  quickly  in  the 
hope  of  reaching  Murlough  Bay  before  the  rain  began, 
but  as  he  neared  the  Grey  Man's  Path,  down  in  the 
hollow  there,  he  saw  someone  lying  on  his  back,  and 
knew  that  it  was  Martin.  He  felt  no  surprise :  it  was 
as  if  all  along  he  had  expected  to  find  him  here. 

Martin  was  alone.  He  lay  bare-headed  among  the 
heather,  his  face  upturned  to  the  sky.  Richard  stood 
gazing  at  him,  and  presently  he  looked  round. 

"  Hello,  Ricky  ! "  He  sprang  lightly  to  his  feet  and 
held  out  his  hand.  Richard,  instead  of  grasping  it, 
made  a  sudden  clutch  at  his  hat,  which  he  continued  to 
hold,  and  Martin  sat  down  again  upon  the  heather. 

"  The  mater  told  me  she  didn't  think  you  were 
coming.     Have  you  been  to  the  house  yet  ?" 

"  No." 

Martin  once  more  stretched  himself  at  full  length. 
"  Looks  like  rain,"  he  said,  "  but  we  can  get  shelter 
under  some  rock."  Then  it  appeared  to  strike  him  that 
an  expression  of  sympathy  was  required,  for  he  added, 
"  You've  had  infernally  rough  luck,  Ricky.     I  intended 


304    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

to  write  to  you,  but  then — well,  there  are  things  one 
carCt  write,  aren't  there  ?  and  letters  at  the  best " 

"  Go  on — go  on,"  Richard  encouraged  him.  He  felt 
a  sudden  wildness  in  his  blood.  They  were  alone  here 
— alone  on  the  earth,  alone  under  the  sky,  far  away  from 
civilization,  in  the  wind,  with  the  immense  sea  rolling 
down  there  six  hundred  feet  below  them. 

Martin  glanced  up  quickly,  coloured,  and  looked 
annoyed. 

"  I  only  wished  to  say  I  was  sorry,"  he  muttered,  "  but 
if  you  don't  want  me  to " 

"  Sorry  for  what  ?" 

"  Sorry  for .     Look  here,  Ricky,  what  did  you 

come  down  for  ?  You  aren't  going  to  be  nasty,  are  you  ? 
I  don't  see  what  I've  said  to  offend  you.  Of  course,  I 
can  understand  that  you're  feeling '' 

"  I  want  to  know  what  you  are  sorry  for,"  Richard 
interrupted  him.  A  seagull  flew  out  from  the  cliff  and 
screamed  as  it  circled  downward  to  the  water. 

Martin  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"  Are  you  sorry  for  things  in  general,  or  for  your  own 
particular  share  in  them  ?" 

Martin  got  up  and  looked  round  for  his  iiat. 

"  Before  you  go  I  want  you  to  tell  me." 

"  I  think  you  are  mad.     What  did  I  do  ?" 

"  I  can  remind  you  if  you  have  forgotten."  And 
suddenly  a  red  light  of  hatred  glean^ed  through  the 
darkness  of  his  eyes.  "  You  had  your  hand  in  it  from 
the  beginning.  It  was  you  who  first  made  her  jealous. 
It  was  you  who,  in  the  end,  failed  her.  If  you  had  met 
her  at  the  station  all  would  have  been  well.  At  any 
rate,  it  would  not  have  been  what  it  was.  But  you  were 
afraid.     You  were  afraid  that  she  would  saddle  herself 


THE  VISION  305 

upon  you.  You  were  afraid  of  the  unpleasantness  of 
being  in  any  way  connected  with  such  matters;  so  you 
had  important  business  which  took  you  out  of  town. 
You  wrote  a  beautiful  letter  of  advice  instead.  I  have 
it  at  home.  I  think  I  could  repeat  it  to  you.  You  poor 
miserable  creature." 

Martin  flushed  angrily.  He  kicked  at  a  loose  stone, 
which  rolled  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  disappeared. 
"  Look  here,  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head,  or  else 
clear  out  of  this.  You  needn't  try  to  blame  me  for  your 
own  dirty  conscience.  If  she  wanted  to  be  jealous  she 
had  good  enough  cause  to  be.  I'm  not  quite  so  much 
in  the  dark  as  you  imagine.'* 

"  Also  you  helped  to  kill  my  son,"  Richard  persisted 
curiously.  There  was  a  strange  singing  in  his  ears,  that 
may  have  been  the  wind,  or  may  have  been  only  the 
voices  that  were  shouting  in  his  blood.  "  It  was  you 
who  did  kill  him.  I  don't  say  you  did  these  things 
on  purpose — the  way  you  used  to  do  things  long  ago — 
do  you  remember?  But  you  did  them,  all  the  same, 
because  it  is  your  nature  to  produce  evil  and  cause 
suffering.  ...     Do  you  remember  the  things  you  did 

in  the  old  days Do  you  ?  .  .  .     I  remember  them — I 

remember  them  all  now.  ...  Do  you  think  it  matters 
to  me  whether  you  actually  stuck  a  knife  in  him,  or 
were  only  the  silly  cause  of  mischief  and  pain  ?  It  was 
to  satisfy  a  whim  of  yours  that  Rose  went  with  you  that 
day  against  her  will." 

"  I   think  you've  said  nearly   enough   now.     If  you 
chose  to  neglect  your  wife  and  run  about  with  another 

woman,  whom  you  have  made  equally  miserable " 

Richard  struck  him  on  the  mouth. 
There  was  a  pause.     Martin  had  staggered  back  a 

20 


3o6    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

pace,  and  when  he  recovered  himself  a  thin  trickle  of 
blood  was  running  down  his  chin.  He  appeared  to 
hesitate,  retreating  a  step  or  two,  while  his  lips  twitched 
nervously.     Then  he  accepted  the  inevitable.  .  .  . 

They  fought  savagely,  blindly,  but  only  for  a  few 
moments  like  this.  Then  the  sound  of  feet  moving  in 
the  slippery  heather,  of  blows  given  and  guarded, 
abruptly  ceased.  There  was  now  no  sound  at  all,  but 
as  he  felt  himself  locked  in  that  grip  which  he  had  not 
encountered  since  the  days  of  their  boyhood,  a  look  of 
terror  was  visible  in  Martin's  face.  He  tried  to  force 
himself  loose,  struggling  viciously,  the  whites  of  his 
eyes  showing,  and  his  lips  curling  back  from  his  teeth. 

"  Let  me  go.  I'll  fight  you  fair,"  he  half  squealed. 
"  Let  me  go,  damn  you."  For  he  knew  that  they  were 
swaying  there  almost  at  the  cliff's  edge,  and  that  the 
ground  was  treacherous.  He  tried  to  use  his  feet,  his 
teeth,  but  he  could  not.  His  breath  came  in  bursting 
sobs,  and  he  no  longer  struggled  to  free  himself,  but 
clung  with  all  his  might.  He  had  no  chance;  he  knew 
he  had  no  chance;  and  this  devil  would  murder  him; 
they  would  both  be  killed.  Suddenly  Richard  let  him 
go.  Martin  still  clung,  but  an  immense  impelling  force 
tore  away  his  grip.  There  was  a  scuffling  noise  as  of 
sliding  sand,  a  scream,  a  moment  of  waiting,  and  then, 
from  somewhere  down  below,  a  faint  thud. 

For  perhaps  ten  seconds  the  silence  continued,  while 
Richard  stared  at  the  vacant  sky  before  him,  with  parted 
hps  and  eyes  of  horror.  Then  he  ran  to  the  path  and 
half  slid,  half  clambered  down.  He  reached  the  bottom, 
by  a  miracle,  without  breaking  his  neck,  but  Martin  was 
there  before  him.  He  lay  on  the  grass,  in  an  ugly, 
unnatural  attitude,  with  his  arms  spread  out,  and  one 


THE  VISION  307 

of  his  legs  bent  back  under  him.  His  face  wore  an 
expression  of  astonishment,  but  there  was  no  colour  in 
it,  save  where  a  bloody  froth  oozed  from  the  mouth. 
Kneeling  down,  Richard  raised  the  head,  then  gently 
lowered  it  He  put  his  hand  upon  the  heart,  but  all 
was  still;  he  looked  into  the  wide-open  eyes  that  were 
already  glazing  over.  He  did  these  things  mechani- 
cally, for  he  knew  that  death  must  have  been 
instantaneous,  that  the  body  must  be  horribly  broken, 
and  for  this  reason  he  feared  to  move  it. 

"  I  did  not  mean  it :  I  did  not  mean  it,"  he  repeated 
to  himself.  He  looked  up  at  the  perpendicular  wall  of 
rock.  He  looked  round  at  the  grey  sea,  moving 
desolately  beneath  heavy  clouds.  Thirty  yards  below 
the  grassy  slope  on  which  Martin  lay,  a  thin  line  of 
foam  curled  over  against  the  loose  rocks  and  stones  that 
edged  the  shore.  There  was  nothing  living  within 
sight — not  even  a  seagull.  Richard  knelt  there  quite 
still.  Presently  he  began  to  cry  softly,  like  a  little  boy, 
while  the  slow  breaking  of  the  waves  murmured  with  a 
low  sad  sound. 

He  thought  of  his  mother.  For  her  this  would  be 
the  end  of  all  things.  Her  love  for  Martin  had  been 
the  great  reality  of  her  life — and  he  cried  softly  below 
his  breath.  He  could  never  face  her  again.  He  had 
cut  himself  off  from  his  mother;  he  had  cut  himself  off 
from  everyone;  he  had  cut  himself  off  from  God.  He 
rose  to  his  feet,  not  glancing  again  at  Martin.  The  path 
by  which  he  had  descended  was  close  at  hand,  but  he 
walked  past  it,  and  began  the  upward  climb  at  a  spot 
where  it  seemed  impossible.  He  climbed  slowly,  and 
when  he  had  made  two-thirds  of  the  ascent  he  paused 
and  deliberately  looked  down.     A  single  false  step  now, 


3o8    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

the  loosening  of  a  stone  in  that  brittle  treacherous 
basalt,  and  he  would  be  as  Martin  was.  He  climbed 
on  and  presently  emerged  over  the  edge  and  scrambled 
to  his  feet. 

He  retraced  his  steps  to  the  spot  where  the  struggle 
had  taken  place.  He  could  see  no  signs  of  it  in  the 
springy  heather,  save  where,  in  one  spot,  Martin,  in 
falling,  had  torn  up  the  ground.  But  on  Martin  himself 
there  might  be  signs,  though  he  had  not  struck  him  on 
the  face,  with  the  exception  of  the  first  blow,  which  had 
cut  his  lip.  These  thoughts  were  not  suggested  by  any 
sense  of  personal  danger — as  to  that  he  felt  a  complete 
indifference — but  it  was  better,  for  her  own  sake,  that 
his  mother  should  not  know. 

He  struck  across  the  heath  directly  inland,  making 
towards  the  point  where  he  knew  the  road  to  lie.  The 
rain,  which  had  been  threatening  for  an  hour  past,  had 
now  begun  to  fall.  It  grew  rapidly  heavier,  coming 
down  at  last  in  a  blinding  torrent,  so  that  by  the  time 
he  reached  the  road  it  was  streaming  with  water.  Bare 
and  storm-swept,  it  stretched  before  him,  offering  no 
chance  of  shelter.  He  quickened  his  steps  and  presently 
broke  into  a  run. 


Ill 

He  walked  home  through  town,  but,  when  he  reached 
the  corner  of  the  street  in  which  he  Hved,  he  felt  he 
could  not  face  the  long  evening  in  that  desolate  house 
alone.  He  wondered  to  whom  he  could  go.  Mr.  Escott 
was  practically  his  only  friend,  and  Mr.  Escott  would  be 
busy.  With  that  he  became  conscious  of  church  bells 
ringing  all  around  him,  and  their  summons  seemed  to 
offer  at  least  a  temporary  solution  of  his  difficulty. 

He  arrived  a  little  late,  and  made  his  way  to  his  old 
seat.  The  warmth,  the  light,  the  loud  drone  of  many 
mingled  voices,  produced  upon  him  a  curious  effect  of 
dreaming,  and  he  rose,  and  sat  down,  and  rose  again, 
with  the  others,  mechanically.  He  had  an  extraordinary 
impression  of  being  present,  yet  not  corporeally  present 
— an  impression  that  he  was  invisible  to  all  those  people 
assembled  there.  The  sound  of  the  words  spoken 
reached  his  ears,  meaningless  as  the  patter  of  raindrops 
on  green  leaves,  seeming  to  accentuate  his  isolation,  to 
create  a  viewless  yet  impassable  barrier  about  him,  to 
cut  him  off,  as  it  were,  from  participation  in  that 
common  life.  Mr.  Escott  preached,  but  Richard  made 
no  attempt  to  follow  what  he  said.  Detached  sentences 
floated  into  his  mind  and  hovered  there  a  moment,  like 
idle,  coloured  butterflies — but  no  more.  .  .  . 

He  was  on  his  feet  again  and  the  organ  was  playing. 
Suddenly  he  realized  that  everyone  was  going  out,  and 
caught  up  his  hat. 

309 


310    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

In  the  porch  he  waited  for  Mr.  Escott. 

"  Well,  Ricky,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  congratulate  you 
upon  your  reappearance  in  our  midst." 

"  Are  you  busy  ?     Are  you  going  anywhere  ?" 

"  Nowhere  that  matters.  Come  home  with  me  and 
have  some  supper." 

They  had  only  to  cross  the  road,  and  three  minutes 
later  Richard  was  seated  in  an  arm-chair.  "  I'll  be  with 
you  in  a  second,"  Mr.  Escott  said.  "  Fm  just  going  to 
change  my  coat  and  get  a  pair  of  slippers." 

He  left  the  room,  and  the  instant  he  was  gone  Richard 
had  a  vision  of  Martin  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  in 
the  long,  wet  grass,  with  an  immense  darkness  above 
and  around  him.  He  tried  to  put  it  from  him,  but  it 
had  flashed  upon  his  mind  so  suddenly  and  vividly 
that  a  feeling  of  horror  persisted,  a  sense  of  something 
about  which  it  was  not  safe  to  think,  but  which,  never- 
theless, had  still  to  be  faced.     Mr.  Escott  rejoined  him. 

After  supper,  sitting  opposite  each  other,  they  smoked 
in  silence. 

An  hour  passed,  and  he  rose  from  his  chair.  "  I  must 
go.  It  is  getting  late  and  I  have  to  be  up  early  in  the 
morning." 

Mr.  Escott  looked  at  him  with  an  uneasy  sense  that 
all  was  not  well.  From  the  first  he  had  been  struck  by 
Richard's  expression,  which  was  that  of  a  man  who  has 
been  subjected  to  a  mental  or  spiritual  shock,  an 
experience  which,  from  its  very  nature,  produces  a  kind 
of  moral  disorganization.  "  There's  no  hurry,"  he  said, 
"  so  far  as  I  am  concerned."  Then  he  added,  "  I  don't 
know  why,  but  just  now,  sitting  here,  it  occurred  to  me 
that  there  was  something  you  wanted  to  tell  me." 

Richard  did  not  reply,  and  as  he  did  not  sit  down 


THE  VISION  311 

again   the   clergyman,   too,   got   up.     "One   has   such 
fancies  occasionally." 

Next  morning,  down  at  the  office,  he  received  the 
telegram  he  was  expecting,  and  in  the  afternoon  he  set 
out  on  the  inevitable  journey  back.  Grace  was  on  the 
platform  when  the  train  came  in.  It  was  the  first  time 
they  had  met  since  Rose's  death. 

"  Did  you  bring  nothing  with  you  ?"  she  asked, 
thinking  he  had  perhaps  left  his  bag  in  the  train. 
"  Surely  you  are  going  to  stay  ?" 

"  Yes— I  forgot." 

There  was  something  so  abstracted  and  indifferent  in 
his  manner  that  she  could  not  help  glancing  at  him 
uneasily.  "  Of  course  Henry  can  lend  you  anything 
you  need." 

"  Yes." 

They  proceeded  in  the  direction  of  the  house,  one  of 
two  villas  close  by  the  golf-links  and  facing  the  sea ;  but 
as  they  drew  near  it  he  suddenly  stopped. 

"  Let  us  go  on  a  little  way.  You  haven't  told  me 
yet  what  arrangements  have  been  made." 

She  yielded  reluctantly,  for  she  knew,  and  he  must 
know,  that  Mrs.  Seawright  was  waiting  for  them. 
"  There  is  nothing  to  tell." 

"  Nothing  ?" 

"  Except  that  your  mother  wants  him  to  be  buried 
here.  ...  A  letter  came  for  Martin  this  morning.  I 
brought  it  with  me.     I  think  you  had  better  open  it." 

She  gave  it  to  him,  and  he  glanced  at  the  address 
sprawled  all  over  the  violet-tinted  envelope.  The 
wisdom  of  Grace  in  keeping  it  from  his  mother  was 
apparent  when  he  opened  it.     After  a  brief  inspection 


312    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

he  thrust  it  into  his  breast  pocket,  saying  nothing  to 
her  of  its  contents,  which  she  had  probably  guessed. 

"  I  think  we  had  really  better  turn,"  she  murmured. 
"  Your  mother  is  expecting  you." 

"  When  did  they  find  him  ?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

"  On  Sunday  night.  We  knew  he  had  gone  to  Fair 
Head,  but  we  thought  he  might  be  sheltering  somewhere 
from  the  rain,  which  came  on  very  heavily  about  one 
o'clock.  It  was  not  till  it  was  beginning  to  get  dark 
that  it  occurred  to  us  an  accident  might  have 
happened.  Two  young  fellows  staying  in  the  next 
house  offered  to  go  with  Henry  in  search  of  him.  They 
thought  it  quite  possible  that  he  had  tried  to  come 
round  the  bottom  of  the  cliffs  and  had  sprained  his 
ankle.  They  took  a  car  with  them,  and  lanterns. 
They  found  him  close  to  the  Grey  Man's  Path.  For- 
tunately they  had  brought  a  rope,  for  it  was  very 
slippery  and  the  rain  was  coming  down  in  torrents." 

"  He  was  dead  when  they  found  him  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  must  have  been  killed  instantaneously, 
falling  from  such  a  height." 

They  had  reached  the  house  and  he  followed  Grace 
into  the  hall.  His  mother  came  out  of  the  dining-room 
as  they  entered,  but,  do  what  he  would,  he  could  not 
meet  her  eyes.  Taking  a  hasty  step  forward  he  put  his 
arms  round  her,  while  she  kissed  his  cheek.  Grace 
slipped  away,  leaving  them  together. 

He  followed  his  mother  into  the  dining-room.  He 
sat  with  lowered  eyes,  and  then  turned  to  the  window; 
but  all  the  time  he  felt  that  she  was  watching  him,  and 
that  very  soon  she  must  know,  must  guess,  the  truth. 
At  length  she  asked  him,  "  Will  you  come  upstairs  ?" 

He  wanted  to  refuse,  but  could  not.     Only,  when  they 


THE  VISION  313 

reached  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  he  knew  Martin 
must  be  lying,  he  found  it  impossible  to  go  any  further. 
"  No,"  he  said  desperately,  while  a  look  of  inexpressible 
aversion  crossed  his  face. 

She  made  no  protest,  and  they  returned  to  the  room 
downstairs.  Mrs.  Seawright  resumed  her  seat  near  the 
fireplace,  looking  very  old  and  grey.  She  scarcely 
spoke  now,  and  the  idea  of  what  her  thoughts  must  be 
became  so  unbearable  to  him  that  at  last,  muttering  an 
incoherent  excuse,  he  left  her  and  went  out  of  the  house. 

When  he  returned  Mr.  Campbell  was  there,  and  the 
children.  The  greater  part  of  the  evening  he  spent 
seated  at  the  writing-table,  though  he  wrote  only  two 
letters. 

In  the  morning  the  funeral  took  place,  Mrs.  Seawright 
and  Grace  coming  to  the  grave.  When  all  was  con- 
cluded, Richard  went  back  with  them  to  their  carriage, 
while  Mr.  Campbell,  with  Jim  by  his  side,  stood  talking 
for  a  moment  to  the  parson.  Richard  handed  his 
mother  in  first;  then  Grace;  but  instead  of  following 
them,  he  shut  the  door.  "  I'll  say  good-bye  to  you  here. 
I  think  I'll  walk  back." 

"  But  why  good-bye  ?"  Grace  asked. 

He  did  not  look  at  her.  "  I'm  going  up  by  the  next 
train.     I  won't  have  time  to  come  to  the  house." 

"But !"     She  stopped  suddenly. 

Mrs.  Seawright  said  nothing  at  all.  She  sat  gazing 
fixedly  straight  before  her,  motionless  as  a  figure 
carved  in  granite. 

"  I  must  catch  this  train,"  he  said  huskily.  "  Good- 
bye.    Good-bye,  mother." 

Next  moment  he  had  hurried  away,  avoiding  Mr. 
Campbell  and  the  parson,  who  had  their  backs  turned 


314    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

to  him.  He  took  a  short  cut  across  the  fields,  so  that 
the  carriages  might  not  overtake  him,  and  when  he  came 
to  the  village  post-office  he  dropped  the  two  letters  he 
had  written  the  previous  night  into  the  box.  Then 
turning  down  the  hill  on  the  left  he  gained  the  station. 


IV 

Nevertheless,  on  his  arrival  in  town,  he  did  not  go  to 
the  office.  He  went  for  a  long  walk,  first  following  the 
river,  but  in  the  end  taking  to  the  fields.  His  relief  at 
finding  himself  once  more  alone  gradually  gave  place 
to  an  acute  feeling  of  depression.  And  once  again 
there  surged  up  within  him  that  intense  yearning  for 
life — not  mere  physical  life,  but  something  deeper  and 
more  real.  He  would  have  prayed  had  he  not  felt  that 
it  was  useless.  He  had  struggled  long  and  with  all  his 
strength,  and  now,  as  if  tired  out,  he  felt  that  he  could 
struggle  no  more.  The  wind  rustled  in  the  trees  above 
his  head,  setting  a  shower  of  dead  leaves  wheeling 
about  him;  and  in  the  sound  of  the  wind  he  seemed  to 
hear  the  sound  of  words :  "  As  the  hart  panteth  after 
the  water  brooks,  so  panteth  my  soul  after  Thee,  O 
God." 

He  walked  on,  unconscious  of  the  gathering  storm,  till 
the  first  heavy  drops  of  rain  began  to  fall,  and  he  heard 
the  growl  of  distant  thunder.  Before  him  the  ground 
rose  in  a  low,  rounded  hill;  behind,  were  the  trees  and 
shelter.  But  he  climbed  the  hill  and  turned  to  watch 
the  great  dark  clouds  beating  up  against  the  wind. 
Below  him  was  the  winding  sluggish  river,  twisting  and 
gleaming  like  an  immense  grey  serpent ;  and  every  now 
and  then  a  blaze  of  lightning,  like  the  lash  of  a  whip, 

315 


3i6    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

spat  out  across  the  sky.  Quite  suddenly,  with  the  leap 
of  an  angry  beast,  the  storm  was  upon  him.  Down 
poured  the  rain,  warm,  heavy,  splashing  on  the  grass, 
whipping  the  river  till  the  surface  boiled;  and  a  cloud 
of  darkness  appeared  to  sweep  upward  from  the  earth 
to  meet  the  darkened  sky.  The  lightning  flamed  out 
of  the  gloom,  and  to  his  fancy  seemed  to  shriek  as  it 
tore  the  heavy  clouds  from  end  to  end.  The  thunder 
broke  above  his  head,  no  longer  in  growls  and  rumbles, 
but  in  terrific  explosions.  He  stood  there,  and  the 
warm  rain  drenched  him,  running  down  his  face, 
soaking  through  his  clothes.  He  had  no  fear,  only  a 
sense  of  wonder  and  admiration.  And  he  watched  the 
storm  pass  rapidly  as  it  had  arisen;  he  watched  the 
clouds  sweep  away  till  they  were  like  a  dark  mountain 
on  the  horizon.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  took  but  a 
few  minutes,  yet  it  must  have  been  more  than  an  hour 
after  he  had  ascended  the  hill,  when  the  last  low 
mutterings  died  into  silence.  The  sun,  now  far  down 
in  the  west,  shone  across  the  streaming  earth.  The  low 
earth-music  again  became  audible — the  trickling  of 
water,  the  distant  murmur  of  a  weir,  the  rustle  of  leaves, 
the  splash  of  the  rain  dropping  from  the  drenched  trees, 
the  cries  of  happy  birds. 

And  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  awakened  out  of  a  dream, 
it  came  to  him  that  all  this  rain-washed  world  was  new. 
He  had  no  idea  what  had  happened  :  only  a  barrier 
had  broken  down  within  his  soul,  and  a  light  had 
entered  there.  It  transfigured  everything,  it  poured 
into  his  spirit  as  it  poured  over  the  fragrant  earth.  He 
dropped  down  upon  the  soaked  grass.  He  had  no 
thought  of  personal  salvation,  he  had  nothing  save  a 


THE  VISION  317 

sense  of  being  at  one  with  this  great  glorious  earth,  and 
at  one  with  God.  He  felt  himself  as  a  minute  part  of 
a  vast  whole.  He  remained  perfectly  passive,  and  that 
dazzling  Hght  engulfed  him,  lapped  about  him  like  a 
sea,  entered  into  all  his  being,  with  a  gift  of  peace.  All 
he  had  to  do  was  to  offer  no  resistance,  simply  to 
let  it  flow  over  him  in  wave  after  wave,  gentle  and 
strong,  a  great  cleansing  flood  that  sanctified  and 
blessed. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  he  came  down  from  the  hill 
to  the  river,  but  he  had  had  no  knowledge  of  the 
passing  of  time,  there  had  been  no  time,  for  in  the 
interval  between  his  dropping  down  on  the  grass  and 
his  rising,  cramped  and  stiff,  to  his  feet,  his  soul  had 
been  caught  up  into  the  spirit  of  God.  He  still  felt 
that  spirit  close  to  him,  breathing  with  his  breath.  The 
actual  vision  was  gone,  but  he  knew  that  it  had  left 
something  behind  it  which,  though  it  might  at  times 
grow  dim,  could  never  leave  him.  He  had  been  with 
God;  he  had  been  in  God.  It  was  real;  it  was  true; 
there  was  a  meaning  though  he  might  not  grasp  it :  but 
it  was  there — he  knew. 

And  as  he  walked  home  along  the  river  bank,  beside 
the  darkening  water,  a  strange  tranquillity  descended 
upon  him.  He  had  no  feeling  of  repentance,  no  sense 
of  sin,  no  assurance  of  forgiveness,  simply  a  sense  of 
God  and  an  acquiescence  in  His  will.  He  did  not  ask 
why  such  a  vision  should  have  been  granted  to  him,  he 
did  not  wonder  as  to  his  own  worthiness  or  unworthi- 
ness,  he  did  not  trouble  about  the  past  nor  about  the 
future.  He  knew  that  his  way  would  be  made  plain  to 
him,  that  there  was  a  light  to  guide  him,  and  that  he 


3i8    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

would  follow  this  light  whithersoever  it  led.  His  state 
of  mind  was  simple  as  that  of  a  lost  child,  who  suddenly, 
in  some  dark  and  desolate  place,  is  found  by  his  mother, 
his  mother  come  with  a  friendly  lantern  and  a  half- 
anxious,  half-smiling  tenderness,  to  fetch  him  home. 


During  the  drive  back  to  the  house  Grace  scarcely 
ventured  to  glance  at  her  companion.  She  was  only 
conscious  of  Mrs.  Seawright's  sitting  very  straight  and 
motionless  beside  her,  wrapped  in  thoughts  she  did  not 
dare  to  penetrate.  She  did  not  herself  understand 
Richard's  behaviour,  which  seemed  to  her  unnatural  in 
the  extreme,  and  she  knew  that  his  mother  would 
understand  it  even  less,  because  she  would  infallibly 
charge  it  with  a  definite  meaning. 

When  they  reached  home  she  observed  with  relief 
that  during  their  absence  the  blinds  had  been  pulled 
up.  Mrs.  Seawright  noticed  it,  too.  "  They  are  in  a 
great  hurry  to  forget,"  was  what  she  said. 

"  Shall  I  pull  the  blinds  down  again  ?"  Grace  asked 
meekly. 

"  No — no.  Let  what's  done  remain.  The  dead  are 
of  no  account.  A  man  is  remembered  till  his  mother 
dies :  for  the  rest,  it  doesn't  matter  —  to  -  day  or 
to-morrow.  How  can  you  expect  strangers  to  care, 
when  even  his  own  brother  is  only  anxious  to  be  rid  of 
him  as  quickly  as  may  be ! " 

They  sat  down  to  a  very  subdued  mid-day  meal.  In 
Mrs.  Seawright's  presence  the  Campbell  children  were 
depressed  and  unhappy.  Grace  had  drummed  into 
them  the  necessity  of  keeping  perfectly  quiet,  and  they 
spoke  in  whispers,  with  furtive  glances  at  the  grey  stern 
woman  who   had   so  jealous   an  eye  for  breaches  of 

319 


320    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

decorum.  If  they  had  been  questioned  they  would 
have  answered  at  once  that  they  were  very  sorry  for  her, 
but  what  they  actually  felt  was  that  they  didn't  like  her. 
The  incident  of  the  blinds  had  been  a  warning  to  Grace, 
and  she  was  now  on  her  guard.  Seemingly  wrapped  in 
sorrow,  the  mother  noticed  everything.  She  noticed  that 
Mr.  Campbell  had  laughed  once,  almost  imperceptibly, 
it  is  true,  when  talking  to  the  parson;  she  noticed  the 
eagerness  with  which  the  children  escaped  from  the 
room  after  lunch,  and  how,  once  beyond  the  door,  their 
unlifted  voices  immediately  assumed  a  joyous  note,  as 
of  birds  escaped  from  a  snare.  She  noticed  that  Mr. 
Campbell  took  up  the  newspaper,  and  lit  his  pipe. 
And  Grace  knew  that  she  resented  all  these  things — the 
first  faint  ripples  of  the  waters  of  oblivion. 

She  had  ordered  a  fire  to  be  lit,  with  an  idea  of 
making  the  sitting-room  a  little  more  cheerful,  but  she 
was  left  to  extract  such  solace  as  it  might  afford  alone, 
for  Mrs.  Seawright  retired  to  her  own  room,  where  there 
was  no  fije. 

The  time  passed  slowly.  Grace  tried  to  settle  down 
to  a  book,  but  found  it  impossible.  She  struck  a  few 
notes  on  the  piano,  and  instantly  remembered  Mrs. 
Seawright.  She  would  have  gone  out,. only  she  was 
afraid  that  the  mother  might  come  downstairs  and  find 
her  gone.  Her  husband  was  probably  with  the 
children.  She  crossed  to  the  window.  Yes,  there  they 
all  were,  down  on  the  croquet  lawn,  and  the  children 
were  actually  playing.  Henry  might  have  taken  them 
for  a  walk  instead!  She  was  certain  that  Mrs. 
Seawright,  whose  room  faced  in  that  direction,  must 
have  seen  them. 
As  she  stood  gazing  out,  the  postman  came  across 


THE  VISION  321 

the  bridge  and  on  over  the  grass  to  the  house.  She 
beckoned  to  him  silently,  receiving  the  letters  through 
the  open  window.  Only  one  was  addressed  to  her,  and 
she  observed  with  surprise  that  it  was  from  Richard. 
Grace  laid  the  other  letters  on  the  table,  and  returning 
to  the  fire  read  and  re-read  the  single  sheet  of  paper 
that  was  closely  covered  with  his  small  handwriting. 
Then  she  leaned  forward,  and,  placing  it  carefully  in 
the  middle  of  the  fire,  watched  it  burn. 

She  was  still  watching  the  ashes  when  Mr.  Campbell 
entered.  He  stood  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece, 
and  presently  he  said,  "  You  look  tired,  Grace.  Hadn't 
you  better  lie  down  for  a  little  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Seawright  ?" 

"  Upstairs.     Are  you  going  back  to  town  to-night  ?" 

"  No ;  it's  hardly  worth  while  :  I'll  go  up  to-morrow." 

"  I  think  I'll  go  up  with  you  then.  The  children  will 
be  all  right  here  with  mother." 

"  It  won't  be  very  cheerful  for  them.  What  do  you 
want  to  do  in  town  ?     Can't  I  do  it  for  you  ?" 

"  No.     I  want  to  see  Richard." 

"  Richard  !  Didn't  you  see  him  yesterday  and  this 
morning  ?     Why  didn't  he  come  back  here  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  must  confess  I  thought  it  very  peculiar — his  dis- 
appearing like  that,  at  the  earliest  possible  moment — 
especially  when  his  mother  was  so  upset.  He  hardly 
spoke  to  her  even  when  he  was  here." 

"  Richard,  of  course,  is  peculiar.  But,  as  you  say,  he 
should  have  stayed.  I  had  no  idea  that  he  wasn't 
going  to.  There  is  something  I  must  talk  to  him 
about." 

21 


322    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Couldn't  you  write  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  so."  She  smiled.  "  You  know  what 
Richard  is." 

He  looked  at  her  a  little  strangely.  "  I'm  afraid  I 
don't.  If  you're  determined  to  go  up  to  town,  how- 
ever, I  shall  stay  on  here," 

"  Why  ?" 

"  I  think  the  reason  is  sufficiently  obvious." 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  go,  then  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  fair  to  leave  the  children  alone 
here  with  Mrs.  Seawright.  You  know  yourself  what  it 
has  been  like  for  the  last  two  days." 

"  In  that  case  I  could  go  up  to-night,  and  come  down 
to-morrow  by  the  first  train." 

Mr.  Campbell  frowned.  "  What  is  there  so  very 
pressing  about  this  business?  I  really  see  no  reason 
why  you  should  go.  You  can  ask  Richard  down  for 
the  week-end  :  that  will  give  you  plenty  of  time  to  talk 
to  him." 

"  I  think  I  must  go  at  once." 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  she  felt  her 
husband's  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  "  Oh,  very  well,"  he 
said  at  last,  coldly. 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  gave  an  impatient  kick 
at  the  fire,  sending  a  shower  of  sparks  up  the  chimney. 
"  If  you  insist,  in  spite  of  my  disapproval,  you  had 
better  send  a  wire  to  the  house  to  say  you  are 
coming." 

"  Yes,  I'll  do  that." 

She  went  upstairs  at  once,  for  she  had  not  much 
more  than  time  to  catch  her  train;  but  when  she  was 
safely  upon  her  way  she  began  to  think.  Henry  was 
very  angry  with  her,  or  he  would  never  have  left  her 


THE  VISION  323 

to  come  alone  to  the  station.  But  soon  she  forgot 
Henry,  forgot  that  for  the  first  time  they  had  been  on 
the  verge  of  a  quarrel.  She  did  not  know  what  would 
happen;  she  only  knew  that  Richard  must  need  her; 
and  suddenly  an  extraordinary  light,  almost  of 
triumph,  came  into  her  face. 


VI 

When  she  arrived  in  town  she  took  a  taxi.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  that  Richard  might  not  be  at  home,  and 
on  reaching  the  house  she  paid  the  man  and  allowed 
him  to  drive  away.  But  no  one  came  to  the  door  in 
answer  to  her  knock.  She  knocked  and  rang  three 
times  before  a  dreadful  idea  flashed  across  her  mind, 
turning  her  sick  with  apprehension.  She  drew  back, 
wondering  what  she  could  do,  looking  up  helplessly  at 
the  dark  windows.  The  street  was  deserted,  save  for  a 
group  of  youths,  who,  at  a  little  distance,  stood  talking. 
They  stared  at  her,  and  she  walked  as  far  as  the  comer, 
where  she  waited  with  the  wild  idea  of  getting  a  police- 
man to  force  an  entrance.  No  policeman  came  into 
sight,  and  she  was  about  to  go  round  to  the  back  of  the 
house,  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  approaching  foot- 
steps. It  was  he — Richard — and  an  immense  relief 
banished  every  other  feeling. 

He  did  not  recognize  her  till  he  was  quite  close. 

"  Grace  1     I  hope  you  haven't  been  waiting  long  !" 

"  No ;  only  for  a  minute  or  two." 

He  unlocked  the  door  and  she  entered.  Then,  in  the 
hall,  she  turned  quickly  to  him  and  kissed  him  on  his 
cheek. 

"  But  you're  wet  through  !"  she  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"  Yes ;  we  had  a  thunderstorm  and  I  happened  to  get 
caught  in  it." 

324 


THE  VISION  325 

"  You  must  change  your  things  at  once.  Why  didn't 
you  shelter  ?" 

"  Oh,  ril  be  all  right." 

He  opened  the  parlour  door  and  lit  the  gas  :  then  put 
a  match  to  the  fire  which  was  laid  in  the  grate.  "  I'll 
be  down  in  a  few  minutes,  if  you  don't  mind  waiting." 

She  had  been  struck  by  the  quietness  of  his  manner; 
she  did  not  understand  it,  and  though  she  had  come 
with  the  express  purpose  of  helping  him,  somehow, 
instead  of  bringing  relief,  it  produced  in  her  a  vague 
sinking  of  the  heart.  She  sat  gazing  into  the  smoky  fire 
till  she  once  more  heard  his  step  upon  the  stairs. 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  it  very  untidy  and  uncom- 
fortable here,"  he  said,  as  he  came  in. 

She  had  risen  to  meet  him,  and  she  now  put  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder  and  leaned  her  head  against  his  breast. 

'*  Ricky   dear,   I   came   because Oh,   I   could    cry 

when  I  think  of  it  all." 

He  stood  quite  still.  "  You  should  not  have  come," 
lie  said  at  last,  very  gently.  "  You  must  not  stay 
long.  .  .  .     Does  anybody  know  you  are  here  ?" 

"  What  matter  how  much  they  know  ! " 

"  It  matters  a  great  deal,  Grace." 

"No;  it  is  only  you  I  think  of.  .  .  .  But  I  told 
Henry." 

She  paused,  drawing  a  deep  breath.  His  beautiful 
eyes  had  a  strangely  calm  expression.  He  was  not  in 
the  least  as  she  had  expected  to  find  him.  She  had 
come  to  help  him,  to  console  him,  and  he  did  not  seem 
to  need  either  help  or  consolation. 

"  I  should  not  have  written  to  you,"  he  said.  "  But 
at  the  time  I  felt  that  I  must  tell  somebody.  It  was 
stupid  and  weak :  all  that  it  has  done  is  to  make  you 
unhappy." 


326    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

"  Yes,  I  am  unhappy.  That  is  why  I  am  here.  You 
said  in  your  letter  that  you  were  going  away.  I  want 
to  come  with  you."  She  forced  herself  to  speak  hope- 
fully, though  there  was  already  a  chill  at  her  heart. 
"  Let  us  begin  at  the  beginning  and  try  to  see  our  way. 
What  you  told  me  is  true,  isn't  it — the  whole  truth  ? 
And  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  go  ?" 

"  I  cannot  stay  on  here." 

She  looked  at  him  fixedly.  "  Ricky,  why  are  you 
afraid  of  me  ?" 

"Afraid!" 

"  Yes.  I  can  see  it  in  your  face.  I  must  speak  the 
truth  now  I  am  here :  there  must  be  nothing  hidden.  I 
came,  knowing  the  dreadful  thing  you  told  me,  because 
I  wanted  to  be  with  you,  to  share  your  future,  whatever 
it  may  be.  You  need  not  be  sorry  that  you  wrote  to 
me,  for  I  am  glad.       It  is  true.     I  am  glad — glad." 

They  were  standing  close  together,  but  she  came 
closer  still.  His  dark  eyes  rested  upon  hers,  and  for  a 
space  she  even  believed  that  she  had  gained  her  point. 
But  next  moment  she  knew  that  if  he  hesitated  for  a 
word,  it  was  not  for  the  word  she  longed  for. 

"  You  must  not  talk  like  that,"  he  said,  with  the  same 
peculiar  quietness,  which  from  the  first  had  seemed  to 
shut  her  out  from  all  that  was  passing  in  his  mind. 
"  You  must  go  back,  Grace.  What  you  propose  is 
impossible.  It  is  not  that  I  am  ungrateful,  not  that  I 
do  not  understand.  But  I  don't  know  myself  what  I 
am  going  to  do,  where  I  am  going  to.  I  can  see  little 
beyond  the  present  hour.  You  have  your  home,  and 
your  life  is  bound  up  with  the  lives  of  others.  I  cannot 
go  back  to  that  life." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  a  little  helplessly,  and  the 


THE  VISION  327 

fact  that  he  was  so  obviously  trying  to  be  kind  and  to 
think  of  what  was  best,  drove  her  to  despair.  She  drew 
a  sharp  breath  that  was  almost  a  sob,  and  out  of  her 
white  face  her  eyes  shone,  watching,  searching  his,  with 
a  painful  eagerness.  There  was  a  silence,  and  then  at 
last  a  deep  blush  overspread  her  face. 

"  I  will  write  to  you,"  he  stammered. 

She  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  but  she  now 
let  him  once  more  look  upon  her  abasement.  "  No — no," 
she  wailed.  "  I  don't  know  what  is  happening,  what  I 
am  doing,  and  we  must  settle  something  before  I  leave. 
What  is  it,  Ricky  ?     There  is  no  danger^  is  there  ?" 

He  had  a  moment  of  wonder,  while  it  dawned  upon 
him  that  she  must  actually  think  he  had  lied  to  her. 

"  I  am  only  frightening  you,"  he  repeated.  "  There  is 
no  danger." 

"  But  this — all  this  that  has  happened — how  can  you 
bear  it  alone  ?  I  don't  understand.  Ricky — don't  you 
care  ?     But  if  you  don't  care,  why  need  you  go  away  ?" 

"  I  must  go ;  I  must  go,"  he  murmured.  It  was  impos- 
sible for  him  to  explain.  There  was  a  long  pause,  and 
as  she  watched  him  his  face  seemed  gradually  to  change, 
his  eyes  to  look  beyond  her,  and  beyond  the  room,  with 
a  strange  fascinated  expression,  as  if  at  some  flaming 
vision  in  the  sky.  "  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said  at 
last.  "  But — a  few  minutes  ago  it  all  seemed  perfectly 
clear." 

She  trembled  slightly,  drawing  back  a  little.  "  You 
didn't  kill  him  on  purpose  ?"  she  breathed. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Yet  if  it  was  known — known  that  you  had  had  a 
quarrel,"  she  went  on  eagerly,  "  they  might  not  believe 
you" 


328    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

Suddenly  his  eyes  seemed  to  burn  straight  into  her 
soul.  "  I  have  seen  Him,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I 
have  been  with  Him — face  to  face." 

She  stared,  and,  for  the  first  time,  a  vague  fear  began 
to  take  possession  of  her.  With  it  she  felt  that  the  last 
slender  thread  binding  him  to  her  had  snapped,  and 
that  it  was  beyond  her  power  to  touch  him.  "  Whom 
have  you  seen  ?"  she  whispered. 

"  I  have  seen  God.  He  has  been  with  me ;  I  know 
now  that  He  has  been  with  me  from  the  beginning.  I 
thought  He  was  not  there,  because  He  was  everywhere. 
I  remember  once,  when  I  was  a  boy,  being  too  frightened 
to  go  down  a  certain  road  alone,  because  He  was  in 
the  trees  waiting  for  me;  speaking  in  the  moving 
branches.  I  heard  His  voice,  but  I  did  not  recognize 
il  and  was  afraid.  Now  I  can  see  Him  wherever  I  turn. 
I  do  not  know  where  He  will  lead  me;  I  do  not  know 
what  He  will  do  with  me.  But  wherever  I  go  He  will 
be  there.  That  is  why  I  must  be  alone.  I  must  have 
no  ties,  no  one  depending  on  me.  I  must  be  His,  so 
that  He  can  claim  my  life  or  death  at  any  moment." 

She  gazed  at  him  in  pale,  voiceless  stupor.  She  saw 
the  hope  she  had  secretly  cherished  curl  up,  vanish,  like 
a  mist  in  the  scorching  blaze  of  some  terrific  sun.  Then, 
at  last,  words  broke  from  her  in  a  kind  of  moan.  "  No ; 
no ;  you  must  not  leave  me.     Not  now — not  now." 

She  clung  to  him,  but  he  gently  unloosed  her  hands ; 
and  in  his  very  gentleness  she  read  an  immovable 
determination.  She  tried  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  his 
words.  She  wanted  to  plead  with  him,  implore  him, 
but  she  could  say  nothing  save  his  name,  which  she 
repeated,  wretchedly,  two  or  three  times. 

There  was  another  silence  before  she  turned  at  last 


THE  VISION  329 

wearily  away,  looking  for  her  waterproof,  which  she 
fastened  about  her  with  trembling  fingers.  "  I  ought 
never  to  have  come,"  she  said.  "  You  do  not  want  me. 
You  never  wanted  me.  All  your  life  long  you  have 
never  thought  of  anyone  but  yourself,  and  now  it  is  your 
own  salvation  you  are  thinking  of." 

He  listened  to  her  with  bowed  head.  "  Will  you  not 
forgive  me,  Grace?" 

"  Yes,  oh  yes — if  it  is  any  consolation,  if  it  means  any- 
thing to  you.  I  daresay  you  have  done  all  that  was 
possible." 

She  went  out  into  the  hall  and  he  followed  her. 

"  Shall  I  walk  home  with  you  ?"  he  asked,  but  she 
shook  her  head. 

He  leaned  his  forehead  against  the  cold  wall.  "  If  I 
am  wrong  now,  God  help  me !"  he  muttered. 

At  the  door  she  looked  out  for  a  moment  into  the 
rain  which  had  again  begun  to  fall.  "  This,  then,  is  the 
last  ?"  she  said,  turning  towards  him  in  dreary 
acquiescence.  "All  my  life  I  have  never  really  known 
you,  and  I  do  not  know  you  now.  My  life  has  been 
nothing  but  a  sort  of  perpetual  trying  to  understand; 
a  perpetual  hope  and  a  perpetual  deception,  for  I  always 
believed  that  some  day  I  should  see  you  as  you  are." 

"  You  see  me  as  I  am,  now." 

"  I  see  nothing — nothing  but  waste.  I  do  not  even 
know  whether  you  are  good  or  bad." 

"  I  do  not  know  myself." 

"  Probably  you  are  very  good." 

But  beneath  the  appalling  bitterness  of  her  words  she 
could  scarcely  stifle  the  sob  that  rose  in  her  breast. 

"  You  still  blame  me.  I  have  done  what  I  could. 
Perhaps — if  things  had  been  different  at  the  beginning 


330    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

— they  might  be  different  now.  Sometimes  I  have 
thought  that  my  life  was  poisoned  at  the  beginning." 

"  Poisoned  by  an  insane  jealousy." 

"  It  may  be  that." 

"  It  was  your  mother  you  loved  best  of  all  (if  you 
ever  loved  anyone) — not  Rose — not  me." 

He  said  nothing  and  she  went  down  the  three  steps 
before  turning  round  for  the  last  time. 

"  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye." 


VII 

And  once  more  she  found  herself  out  in  the  rain-swept 
street,  in  the  feeble,  blurred  gas-light.  She  walked  on 
blindly,  hurriedly,  and  presently  taking  a  wrong  turning 
found  herself  on  the  railway  bridge.  She  stopped 
abruptly,  and  leaning  over  the  low  wall  gazed  down 
into  the  darkness.  She  became  aware,  then,  that  two 
men,  passing  behind  her,  had  also  stopped,  and  were 
watching  her. 

She  hastened  on,  and  in  a  few  minutes  emerged  into 
a  brightly-lit  square.  Here,  at  a  cab-stand,  stood  a 
single  belated  four-wheeler.  It  was  splashed  with  mud, 
and  between  the  shafts  stood  a  broken-kneed,  dejected 
horse.  She  looked  at  the  patient  beast,  and  a  misery 
hopeless  as  her  own,  and  infinitely  less  deserved,  was 
revealed  to  her.  The  driver,  fat,  with  a  red,  bloated 
face,  stepped  hastily  out  of  the  shelter  as  she  approached. 
He  opened  the  door  of  the  cab  encouragingly,  but  she 
turned  away.  No;  she  must  walk,  or  she  would  wait 
for  a  tram.  She  went  on  a  few  steps  and  then  came 
back.  The  driver  had  retreated  to  the  door  of  the 
shelter,  but  as  she  approached  him  he  again  came  for- 
ward. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  the  poor  horse  out  in  the  rain  like 
that  ?" 

She  had  expected  derision,  but  he  regarded  her  in  a 
silence  that  seemed  charged  with  profound  meditation. 
"  Well,  ma'am,  you  see  IVe  my  living  to  earn." 

331 


332    AT  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  GATE 

She  felt  in  her  pocket  for  her  purse.  "  Will  you  take 
him  home  now  if  I  give  you  what  you  think  you  might 
make  between  this  and  your  usual  time  for  going 
home  ?" 

The  driver  greeted  this  proposition  with  another  and 
more  lengthy  silence.  Suddenly  a  light  appeared  to 
dawn  upon  him,  and  he  mentioned  the  sum  that  would 
induce  him  to  yield  to  so  remarkable  a  request. 

Grace  paid  him,  and  watched  him  climb  up  on  the 
box.  She  waited  till  the  cab  rattled  laboriously  off 
into  the  night,  and  then  lingered  yet  longer,  looking  out 
for  a  tram  that  would  take  her  home.  In  a  few  minutes 
she  saw  one  coming.  It  was  crowded  inside  and  out, 
and  she  stood  near  the  door,  in  a  stuffy  atmosphere 
reeking  of  waterproofs  and  wet  clothing.  Mrs.  Wilber- 
force,  returning  from  the  theatre  with  her  husband  and 
one  of  the  girls,  cramped  and  uncomfortable,  resenting 
intensely  the  intrusion  of  each  new  passenger,  bowed  to 
her  frigidly.  Mrs.  Wilberforce  was  aware  of  Martin's 
death,  and  had  written  a  letter  of  condolence  to  his 
mother :  but  Grace  she  had  never  cared  for,  and  one 
cannot  get  over  a  life-long  aversion  at  a  moment's 
notice. 


BILLING   AND   SONS,    LTD.,    PRINTfiRS,    GUILDFORD,    ENGLAND 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

■       20Nov'59FK 

F.ECD  LD 

i;OV  12  1959 

.....^^...- 

II 

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LD  21A-50m-4.'59                                  iT„5™fX^iJ'r/l1fI,„;, 
(A17248l0)476B                                     ^'"''*"g,£^,^^'^**'"" 

YB  39691 


Vs 


33G832  '*" 


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